No Man's Child
by Anoriath
Summary: The Rangers of the North were few in number. The Wild they ranged was vast. When Aragorn commanded they protect the Shire, who must they then leave undefended? What price then did the North pay? As seen through the eyes of a woman of the Lord of the Dúnedain's house, this is a tale of the Northlands in the years of Aragorn's efforts to preserve the Free Peoples of Middle Earth.
1. Prologue

~oOo~

~ Prologue ~

~oOo~

_Aragorn, Arathorn's son, Lord of the Dúnedain, listen to me! A great doom awaits you, either to rise above the height of all your fathers since the days of Elendil, or to fall into darkness with all that is left of your kin. Many years of trial lie before you. You shall neither have wife, nor bind any woman to you in troth, until your time comes and you are found worthy of it… You shall be betrothed to no man's child as yet._

LOTR: Appendix A: Here Follows a Part of the Tale of Aragorn and Arwen

~oOo~

Some time ago, the chanting ceased, leaving only the chill wind whistling through the grass. Here among the barrows, the morning is bright. The sun rises above a hill scoured clean by the bitter winds that sweep down from the northern lands. Snow lies secreted beneath the eaves of the tall pines, revealed only when our passage turned aside low-hanging boughs heavy with green. Yet, even now the tips of the hawthorn swell with the promise of new growth. Soon the wind will turn and blow warmly from beyond the Havens, bringing with it the water of distant seas and the blessings of the Valar.

Dirt trickles from my fist and my fingers ache from the force with which I clasp the earth between them.

The wind sighs through the sere grass and with its chill burns my cheeks where they are wet.

Mutely, I look down upon my father's face pale against the dark, new-turned earth. He it was who taught us the weaving of the buttercups of this very meadow and we placed them upon his dark head. Yet still, I cannot see him. Those are not his beloved eyes, cheeks, and jaw. 'Tis not his hair arrayed about his shoulders. I see naught of likeness to the man whose house I have kept.

"Nienelen?" I hear, and my eyes rise of a sudden from the spatter of dust that lies upon my father's breast.

They are silent, the folk gathered here, and they look upon me with pity.

"Daughter," says she standing beside me, placing a hand upon my wrist to urge the ritual on, her skin pale against the dark brown of mine. Yet, she is not my mother. She that gave me birth died in the labor of it.

I am not her daughter, for I have no mother, nor, now, any father. For, from this day on, I am no man's child.

~oOo~


	2. Chapter 1

~ Chapter 1 ~

_'The road must be trod, but it will be very hard. And neither strength nor wisdom will carry us far upon it. This quest may be attempted by the weak with as much hope as the strong. Yet such is oft the course of deeds that move the wheels of the world.'_

FOTR: The Council of Elrond

~oOo~

_Herein find the accounting of the days of the House of Melendir, Ranger of our Lord of the Dúnedain as scribed by his daughter, Nienelen. _

_~ This the Third Age 3007, 3rd day of Gwirith: Discharges paid of one woolen blanket, one large basket of tightly woven reed with fastened lid, and one thin woolen tunic with sleeves, tendered in exchange for the charges of conveyance of my father's person to the barrows, the digging of his grave, and one length of fine, bleached linen no less than eight ells in length. _

~oOo~

'Tis said the Dúnadan, our lord Aragorn, Arathorn's son, lies as close to death as one could and yet still breathe. They brought him home to the Angle, a long column of weary men, along with their dead.

What befell them, they would not say. Even now they speak little. Their tall frames cloaked in the grays of the Rangers of the North, they stride without word beside their sisters, mothers, and wives as we make that slow journey back to our homes from the barrows. Behind us, the winds bend the heads of the grasses to the ground above our dead. We left them there to the weeping grasses and return to walk paths a little more silent and sit at hearths a little colder.

Twilight falls upon the Third Age, though we knew it not. We knew only this; ever has The Deceiver borne us a long, patient contempt. Once Arnor fell, broken upon the great wave from the north, we ever slide slowly to the depths of our decline. We are a dwindled people, skulking in the hills, wandering in the wastes, and awaiting the day our Enemy shall deign to extend his reach from Mordor and sweep us aside.

He will not forget us, the Dúnedain of the North, but neither will the end come swiftly. He will hoard his hate and wear away at all dignity until we break asunder as a frail ship upon the waves. We cling to Isildur's heirs as would a sailor to a beacon when long upon stormy waters and far from home. They are the walls of our harbor. Tired stone upon stone are the lives of our heirs of kings, but ne'er have they failed us. Had we not the hope of the house of Elendil to strengthen us, we would have long sunk to the dark and bitter depths beneath the flood.

Thistles catch upon the hem of my skirt and I stop to pull its seeds that latch upon the threads there. The sun beats down upon my head until I am dull with lack of sleep. I have wound about my hair and neck a cowl of thin black wool. 'Tis a comfort to me. For its dark folds confound the bitter touch of the wind and the mourning eyes of the folk of the North as they pass, brushing past me silently, lost each in their own memory of grief and burdens to bear. Soon the line of men and women will disappear beneath the eaves of the pines and I will have no more to brush from my skirts.

I turn for one last look upon the bald head of the summit. The mounds of raw earth stark against the hillside are hidden from my sight. Instead, the morning light paints the grasses silver along their edges as the wind sends ripples through last summer's growth. Though I squint against wind and sun, there is naught to see of what I left behind.

At a prickle along my neck, I know I am being watched. The last of my lord's Rangers looks upon me. He is tall, as are all those that descend from Westernesse, but with a height near unmatched here in the North. 'Tis Halbarad, friend to my father and kinsman to our lord, and he holds aside the thin whip of a branch, so I might follow him. The wind blows upon my back, pressing my skirts onto my legs and lifting tendrils of his straight, dark hair from his face. But he remains unmoved under its force and watches me steadily.

It is dark beneath the boughs of the forest where the needles lay in a thick carpet along the path. As our people make their way, the sharp bite of resin and melting snow rises from beneath their feet. The sound of their passage soaks into the soft bed beneath the pines and I can no longer hear their footfalls for the soughing of the wind through the trees. No end is there to be seen to the shadowed tunnel. 'Tis a journey forever in the dark without cease, a mere plodding of one step in front of the other with no purpose. It seems my feet would rather grow roots here on the edge of the wood.

I turn away so I cannot see the Ranger should he raise his arm and usher me on.

_Ai! _In truth, what is it I wish? Shall I lie myself down beside the wounds at the crest of the hill? Bury myself in the broken turf and refuse to move? Wait until my fingers curl their way into the ground and the wind has scoured my body clean of life as it has the grasses?

Halbarad awaits, silent, a tall pillar guarding the path, his grey eyes bright upon me.

For a brief moment as I draw nigh, it seems Halbarad gazes at me intently and words crowd behind his eyes. But when I stoop to walk below his upraised arm, his look falters. Mayhap he has seen the questions in my own eyes.

_What of your kin, Halbarad, Ranger of the North? What fate has befallen the Lord of the Dúnedain, the last of his line?_

He says naught. Instead, he lets fall the branch behind us. We plunge into darkness and his firm footfalls follow upon the path I now tread.

~oOo~


	3. Chapter 2

~ Chapter 2 ~

_It all comes of those newcomers and gangrels that began coming up the Greenway last year, as you may remember; but more came later. Some were just poor bodies running away from trouble; but most were bad men, full o' thievery and mischief. _

ROTK: Homeward Bound

~oOo~

_~ TA 3007, 4th day of Gwirith: Discharges: one cloak of green tightly woven wool in good condition but for worn threads about the lower hem; one leather belt with hangers and purse in good condition; one thick blanket of dark gray, fulled wool in fair condition; one silver tinder box with flint, hardened steel, one char cloth in waxed linen pouch, and small candle of tallow; one leather water bottle soaked in pitch; one hunting knife of good steel of dwarven make; and one two handed sword of unknown make, in exchange for no less than 30 pennies of good silver, or their equivalent. _

~oOo~

The basket is heavy, but not overly so. Its soft reeds creak against my hip where I clutch it as I walk. My steps are slow beneath the burden of the basket and nights poorly slept. I wind my way down the paths from one home to the next, passing house, pasture, field, and shed as I make my way to the center of life at the Angle.

It seems all of the folk of the Dúnedain are out of doors. The voices of men harsh upon the morning air call to oxen pulling the ploughs. Dark is the earth they turn upon the fields. The women spread damp sheets and clothing upon the bushes to dry and arise from the soil to straighten their backs from the planting of their gardens. Their children fetch and carry for them, and shepherd the young ones from harm, their voices high and bright amidst the tofts. Men lounge about the farrier's just apart from the stink of metal and burning hooves. His hammer rings out across the path. Their faces are solemn, and their eyes are dark. They speak little but nod a courteous greeting. I pass and the scrambling of feet, both of horse and man comes from the back of his shed.

"Ha, there," I hear, and men cluster about a yearling at his first shoeing. With hand and soft voices they settle him again and I hear them no more.

I wear the black of mourning, the fine folds of the cloth shivering against my cheek in the morning breeze. I turn few heads, either as I walk or in the square when I arrive. Was not always so, but no bright laughter rings nigh my ear nor shared song shortens the way and draws the eye of our folk bent to stalls and carts of goods. I come upon them now and their voices rise in a muted babble that seems as a stream rushing o'er a stony bed. The people of the Angle have arisen early, for 'tis the day of the market. No matter the empty chairs about the hearth nor the shuttered windows and fallow gardens gone to seed, it is spring, the day is fair, and the Angle must endure.

Come the summer, the heavy hand of the sun will press the folk to find shade where aught they may. But, today, the air is cool and the sun a blessing. The square is full of folk as they awaken from the winter and share of the first fruits of their labors. This early in the spring our men-folk trade beans and bundles of greens from the rough carts they had pulled themselves into the square. Their wives trade tender shoots of cress pulled from the river to please the palate, and thin bark stripped from the willow to ease pain and fevers.

A table has been set afore the tall mound of stone and there, with their children lagging behind them or running about their knees, the men and women of the Dúnedain of the Angle wait for their breads to emerge from the ovens. Low and grave their voices come to me. They speak with heads inclined and I hear words of barter, but, as oft, I hear words of fear mingled therein.

Not only do goods cross hands at the market, but news of the Angle is traded for that of the wider lands about us. We are a people far spread across the lands of Eriador, and the lines that connect us run thin across the Wild. For want of firmer tidings, rumor can run through the market faster than the fabled steeds of the Horse Lords. Today, they speak of our lord and Chief.

Some say the Dúnadan yet lives and lies in the house of his kin. To others, his spirit has already fled these shores and we must soon lay his body in the earth beside his lady mother, and she but newly gone to the barrows, herself. Deeply, now, they regret his seeming indifference. He is the last of his line.

I pass the fuller's stall where his wife is in the midst of haggling o'er a bundle of fleece raw and uncombed. She spares me a smile in greeting o'er the shoulder of her customer.

"Nienelen!" she calls and the woman afore her turns to see to whom she calls. I know her, too, once a childhood friend, but she turns away without greeting. Mayhap more friend to my sister than to I. But still, I cannot bring myself to fault her for the slight. Her gaze had lingered upon the black of my woolen wrap and, I think, calls too keenly to mind when last she wore one such.

"Shall you finish the dye you promised ere you go?" the mistress asks. A true worker of fiber, chapped and white from working in cold water, her fingers never leave off caressing the wool.

"Aye," I call to her. "You do not forget the price we set?"

Anxious am I, for she promised to pay me in coin, a rare thing. I would not ask, but I have great need for it as ne'er afore. The dwarves of the Blue Mountain trade in many things, but I fear have little need of aught I might else have to offer.

"I can pay it, never fear." She waves me on ere returning to her dickering.

I pass, and the butcher's knife comes down upon a joint of meat with a dull whack, sending the hares and fresh-caught fish swaying upon their pole above his head where they hang. Elder Tanaes' face is round and red as always, hale of arm and heart, though he be greatly lame of leg from a wound taken long ago in our lord's service. He raises a bloody knife to wipe his forehead upon his sleeve. As I pass, he gives me a slight wink and nods at the rolls of sausages upon his cart. He knows they are my favorite, fat and freshly made, stuffed with meat, dried apple and sage, but today I shake my head. I have other errands to run. And so, he nods and returns to his work.

Piles of furs and tumbled forms of baskets at first hide the young girl, sitting as she is hunched in a corner behind them. She sits on ragged mats of woven fibers and watches her aunt twine reeds about the naked ribs of a basket she crafts. I know them not, but the brown eyes and skin, head full of curls, and the haggard look of days and nights spent in flight mark them for our folk of one of the wandering clans of the _Gornwaith_ but newly fled here from the Downs. They join other folk come from our southern borders. The _Barodrhim_ they are known by. Herdsmen and homesteaders, they oft bear the mark of Dunland, with their light hair and blue eyes. Here they gather with the cotters born of the Angle without land and beg for day's work from those who have it.

I catch their eye as I pass, but, though I nod, they say naught but stare as had they not thought to see one such as themselves here. And yet, I am but one more stranger in a stranger's home. Bereft they seem, and, though my heart aches for it, I can do little but walk past.

At the last, I must walk afore the table on which are set wine skins from about the sea of Rhŭn, barrels of salt from Harlond, leatherwork from Rohan, knives and tools of dwarven make, glassworks from Dale, and other such goods which the Angle does not produce. There is no help for it, for the path I must take passes afore it and there is no other. 'Tis the stall of the trader, Master Bachor, whose dark eyes have tracked my steps from when first I set foot upon the square. He is sure to have coin, and sure to offer it, were not the cost too dear to accept. He does not greet me, having long ago given up on the attempt, but neither does he hide that he marks my progress and must know full well where I am going. But then, he must turn to his sister who works by his side and seeks his attention to speak with their customer, and I may slip past.

The square now behind me, the door I seek opens upon shaded rooms and I am soon there. Chickens cluck their complaint in their pens in the yard and hide the sounds that come from within. So, it is with alarm that I stop and whirl about, leaving the Elder to his company in his hall. Ranger Halbarad is within and, in the brief glimpse I had of them, has risen to take his leave, his dark head tall above the cap of the old man whose home this is.

I remove myself beneath the low-hanging thatch, my lip pinched between my teeth, and debate what to do. Oft his yard is lined with petitioners, each leaning upon the old man's wall, and it is indeed odd to find myself alone here today. I am torn. I have no desire to overhear their discussion, yet any path away would take me again through the Angle's square and the people in it.

The voice of the Elder comes from the open doorway. It is flat with the toneless quality of the near deaf.

"Aye," says he, "our roots may dig deep, but our branches fail of the skies. Ah! But you know this."

Wood scrapes against the floor and I lean against the Elder's home, eyelids weighted by the sun. It seems the interview is soon to close, and they speak naught of consequence. I have heard this very cant from the Elder afore, many a time. It comes at the end of his litany of worries. I have but to wait. I close my eyes and rest against the wall and, in a moment, his voice and the cackling of the hens are far removed from the half-formed thoughts that swirl in my head.

I know Halbarad but little, for all my father called him friend. Their companionship was told in the silence of men who tread too far upon dark paths. Only once did my father invite Halbarad to our home. Many years it seems now since the tall, quiet man stooped his head to enter our door.

Even in the heaviness that is my drowse I smile. Much care had we put to the meal and lingered over our pots, my sister and I. She, dark-eyed and laughing, whispered of the ensnaring potency of oil of clove as she stirred drops of it into the sweetened pottage and then, giggling, dotted some upon my breast above the line of my shift. 'To give your brown skin its proper sweetness,' she had said. She spoke, too, of matches made upon the shared brother-blood of Rangers as she shook out braids laved with oil, lavender, and aloe water, smoothing black curls into ringlets about my shoulders with its heady scent.

Mayhap that had been my father's intent, but it had come to naught. He partook of the food we offered, spoke of the small things of the Angle with my father, and answered questions of the beauties of the Wild o'er which he had ranged. How his eyes glowed with pleasure at the telling! And yet, he might ever after greet me with sober courtesy when e'er we met, for all the pleasure of his visit Halbarad came ne'er again.

"But they are all from good families, descended from the Kings, and will do at a pinch," comes the Elder's voice, faint as though from a great distance. I hear it not.

"They will do, they will all do, will they not, my boy?"

Halbarad's reply is too deeply voiced for me to hear, but their feet scuff against the floor.

"What was that? Hmm, well, aye, true, only one is needed. And would that we had been heeded long ago. It is long overdue, my good Halbarad. Choose well."

_"I thank thee, Master Maurus_," comes Halbarad's clear farewell.

At the sound, I open my eyes and clutch at the basket ere it falls from my softening grip. When I lift myself from the wall, the dark shadow of the Ranger's cloak is afore me. I know not why he must then start and stare at me as he turns to take his leave.

"Bid you good morrow, sir," I say as I nod.

"Nienelen." Halbarad bows, his eyes wondering. Now that he is close, and I may look fully upon him, I see he bears a bruise about his neck and a long scrape above his eye. They pull at my gaze and I find I wonder at how he came to bear these small wounds. No doubt was my father here, he could tell me.

"Ah, Nienelen," the Elder says, gaining the Ranger's attention as well as my own. He lingers in the door behind Halbarad, his hand clutching its frame in want of other prop. "I thought you might come."

"On the morrow? Yes?" he asks Halbarad as he lays his light clasp upon my elbow. His eyes, watery with age, peer across my shoulder at the Ranger.

"Come, child," Elder Maurus says and pulls me forward.

"Aye, yes, on the morrow," says Halbarad, mumbling in his distraction. Only then seeming to come to himself, he turns to face the Elder. "Aye, until then. Bid you good day," he says loudly, bows, and is gone.

"Come inside, my child," the Elder says. He leans heavily upon my arm as he hobbles his way to the table.

"What think you, Nienelen, eh?" His voice is overloud for being just beneath my ear, but there is little I can do about it that would not give him offense. "Such a fine day is it not, though the breeze is chill to these old bones. They've not left off aching since the winter, knees, hips, and fingers, the lot of them. My end is coming soon, though Pelara tells me I have yet too much mischief to stir up in the Angle ere my time is through."

He waves a hand to the seat Halbarad had so recently vacated and flashes a bright grin as he looks about for his stool. I smile in return. He takes much delight in his reputation, our Elder.

I set the basket and its contents upon the floor when I sit. It thumps heavily to it as it settles.

"Ah, well, you did not come to hear of my ills," he says, undisturbed by the noise. "It is a fault of the very old, my child, to believe that youth has an ear for what will come with the years." He presses swollen knuckles onto the table as he eases his body to his seat. "There, now," he says and sighs, having settled himself down. "Will you have some tea, child?" He lifts the lid of the pot and peers inside.

"Aye, Father," I say, "were it not too much trouble."

"Trouble? What trouble be there?" he asks, squinting eagerly at me from across the table.

I shake my head and then say, "Tea! Father!" I nod broadly and raise my voice. "Yes! Thank you!"

"Oh! Ah, I see," he says, blinks as were it in disappointment, and lets the iron lid clatter to the pot. "No, no, no trouble at all."

He turns about upon his seat and bellows, "Pelara! Company! Tea!"

"And how goes your plans?" he asks in voice that is not much quieter. For the Elder had come visiting yestermorn, knocking at my gate with his cane and making his slow way through my father's garden. There, as the holder of my father's pledge, the Elder had obligation to see to the needs of his oathman's daughter, and we had spoken some and he had invited me hither.

"They go well!"

"Well?" he asks, and I nod. "Ah, good. A pity your father's aunt never chose to remarry. A fine woman she was."

His voice rings in the room just as, no doubt, does mine. I sigh, for I cannot see how I shall conduct my business without all the Angle outside his door being privy to our discussion.

"I would have married her after my Therinil died. Did you know that?" he asks but then goes on without a glance my way. "Oh yes! But she would have none of it. A shame, really. Then you could quit your house and come live with us here. You and my daughter could fight o'er who will provide us with the better care, eh?" His light eyes twinkle merrily.

I am thankfully spared the necessity of answering his question by the appearance of his daughter. Mistress Pelara bustles in, wiping dirt from her hands upon her apron and rubbing at a smear of it dark upon the thin white skin of her brow. I think it most like she has been called from the garden. I smile what I hope is an apology for the disruption in her day when she nods her greeting.

"Good day, Nienelen," she says but turns immediately to the Elder. "Yes, Father," she says and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, so she may see him unhindered. The silver threads in her hair catch the sunlight as she leans in to the old man. A mother of grown sons and daughters, yet she is as a child to his wintered years.

"Ah! There you are, Daughter!" he says. "Tea for our guest, Nienelen. She comes to beg what charity the Angle may give her, kinless woman that she is now."

Were he not an elder of our people, I would have forgotten promises made to my father and unleashed my displeasure upon him. As it is, my back stiffens, my surprise thickening my tongue, so I cannot speak.

"Och, now, Father!" his daughter exclaims and, patting her reddened hands about its surface first to check for its heat, picks up the teapot. "You have not heard a single word Nienelen has said, I warrant, as deaf as you are."

"Bah! My ears are as keen as yours, girl!" he says to her back, for she has gone and I can hear water pouring in the other room.

"Humph!" comes her voice through the doorway. "Did not, just this morning, I tell you to take the porridge off the hearth? Did I not?"

"Impudence!" he calls after her.

"I said, 'Father, should it please you, would you swing the pot away from the fire when the porridge gets to galloping? Our little ones would like some breakfast.'" I hear a loud thud in the other room. "Those very words I used, as clear as the sunrise o'er an open field."

"Do not tempt me, girl! You are not yet too old for me to take you across my knee," the old man warns.

"And there it sits, a mess crusted upon the bottom of the pot as hard as –"

"Should you say aught of consequence –" the Elder goes on, raising his voice and pounding his cane against the floor for her attention.

"— the iron to which it is burnt." Mistress Pelara bustles back in through the door. She thumps the pot upon the brazier at her father's feet and stoops to stir the coals in its belly.

"— I might be troubled to listen," he protests o'er her head.

"You have the ears of worm," she says and gives the coals a final poke.

"Ah, now, Nienelen," she says and, ignoring her father's sour look, rises. "There we are. What did you come for then, child?"

I look from one set of light grey eyes to the other, uncertain who to address. The one who will hear what I say? Or the one who pulls the strings of the family's purse?

"I have given thought to where I must go –" I say, my glance straying from one to the other.

"Oh, no, child!" bursts from the Elder, who has been peering closely at my face as I speak. "Valar save us! You are not traveling in the Wild, are you? All alone, besides?"

His daughter clucks her tongue. "Surely, she is not going without escort, Father!"

"Where could she be headed that she will find any to travel with her, hmm? Our folk flee to the Angle, not away from it."

"Never you mind him, Nienelen," she says, glaring at her father.

"Humph," the old man grunts and rocks on his seat as were he attempting to find the sweetest spot for his old bones. "Where did you say you were planning to go, child?" he asks, leaning in to me for a moment.

I am hesitant to answer, for it seems he is more interested in gathering fuel for the fire raging between them than listening to my answer.

"West, father, near the Blue Mountains!" I say.

"Ah, the Blue Mountains? Why did you not say so afore, child?" He raises his voice though his daughter stands within arm's reach of me. "She intends to travel west, to Amon Mîth," he says as were he the bearer of the news.

Mistress Pelara catches my eye and shakes her head as were only we two able to comprehend her father's folly. Steam rises from the pot and she turns to lift it from the brazier.

"Ah well, now, that makes more of sense." her father says as she sets it upon the pad of wool between us.

The Mistress says naught and rummages loudly through the drawer of a side table. She lifts the lid of the pot to drop a tightly drawn bag therein, her movements quick for the heat of the iron.

"You'd not have close kin there, surely, what with your mother gone all these years, aye?" she asks, and I shake my head as she slips two small bowls afore her father.

"Aye, a sorry business, it is," he sighs, and giving me a glance, pushes a bowl to me with a hand that tremors with his age. "No kin to keep you here, nor obligation to any house other than that of your father's."

He has now fallen silent, his lips pursed as he taps at the crockery afore him with a fingernail to make it chime softly.

His daughter gives me a thoughtful look ere turning her gaze upon her father, but when he gives her but a slight shake of his head, she turns back to me. "You hope to travel with the dwarves that are due to pass through on the East-West road, do you not?"

"Aye, Mistress."

"Need you any aid?"

I shake my head. "I think not, though I shall leave much behind."

"Aye, and we can see it given where greatest the need, and there be great need," the Elder says, nodding.

His daughter takes up the pot and pours the tea into our bowls in silence. To these words of her father's, she does not give protest. Her face is full of sober thought as she pours.

"But these –" I say, leaning down to grasp the basket at my feet. "I must pay for my passage. My father had no sons to pass them on to and I think he would not –" and here my voice falters.

The basket sits in my lap, where it creaks as I breathe. I stare at the tea, unable, a moment, to either move or speak. The steam that rises from our bowls smells of rose hips and chamomile, a tart, pink scent. I hear the soft sound of a tongue clicking at my side and I know it comes from the woman of this house, but I dare not look at her for I know what I shall see.

I clear my throat and, from the depths of the basket pull my father's winter cloak and blanket, knife, belt, tinder box, and other such things as a Ranger might need when traveling.

"His sword, I have at home, and that, too…" I say as I lay them upon the table. There is no need to mention why I would not wish to carry it through the village, they know. A spectacle it would have been.

The Elder's face is solemn. He seems, for once, at a loss for words, and looks to his daughter.

"Ah, Nienelen," she says, her brows knit with concern. "Your eldest may carry his father's gear in time, but would you not save these for a younger son?"

I shake my head. I do not state what is obvious. The chance I shall bear the elder, much less a younger, weighs not near as heavy as the chances of an empty belly and frozen hearth should I not find a place among my kin that gives me shelter and occupation.

"Pelara," I hear and find it is the Elder's voice that speaks so gently.

The look he gives her is full of meaning, though I know not what private thing they share. I take the chance to sip my tea and let them decide what they will. The brew is warm and sweeter than I thought.

"Aye," the Mistress sighs.

She runs an appreciative hand o'er the cloth of my father's cloak and squeezes the blanket beneath, her skin white and freckled with age against its dark folds. Her father lifts his bowl with hands made clumsy by the years and sips from it with great care. It seems he, too, finds comfort in the excuse to remain silent. The mistress was wife to a husband, who, many years ago, had not returned home, and had left them with naught to mourn over but their remembrances.

"We have no coin, Nienelen," Mistress Pelara says, catching the tinderbox and knife ere they can slide from atop the pile of wool, "but doubt not, between my father and I, we could satisfy the price of passage and make up the lack in trade with those who do. Master Dwalin yet owes you the favor he pledged, Father, does he not?

The Elder smacks his lips and speaks into his bowl. "That he does, Daughter."

With this, I feel as were I only now able to take my first breath of clean air in many days. Mayhap, then, mayhap all will end not so poorly as I had feared.

"'Tis for Gelir?" I ask, and she nods. He is her youngest and but newly sworn to our lord's service. It is hard to believe. I recall him as a small boy who set crickets down his playmate's dresses one evening when, as a girl, I had the charge of them. His mother's face softens when she sees me smiling.

"Aye, I know," she says, shaking her head. "He takes most after his mother's father, though it be my eldest who now mans the ovens for our folk." She spares a glance for the grandsire in question, but he is much involved in the tea, slurping loudly, and merely scowls at her above the rim of his bowl. He knows not what she said, but, it seems, recognizes the look she gives him. "But he loves our lord and will serve him with all his heart, following his father in all things."

"Aye then, should it will serve him well. I think I would like that, Mistress. _My thanks to thee_," I say and touch my brow with fingers warmed from the tea.

With a pat to my shoulder, Mistress Pelara then takes up the knife and belt, for they threaten to slide to the floor yet again. "Well then, that is settled, yes?" she says and goes to a chest behind her father to put them away.

So, then it is done. I sip my tea and forget that the basket remains in my lap.

"Shall you not keep this, in memory of him?"

Startled, I look up to find the Mistress' gaze upon me and I know my eyes have lingered on the small metal box of tinder. Vines chase across the silver. It is of dwarven make, though I know not how old. My father told me, when young, that it came from across Lake Town from the hoard of the King under the Mountain. I doubt the tale is true. The story was told by a doting father to brighten the eyes of his daughters and send them to sleep accompanied by dreams of far off places and fanciful tales.

I shake my head, setting down the now empty bowl.

She takes up the metal box. "Truly, Nienelen, I would not begrudge it. Indeed, it is too fine for the boy and he has his own."

The Elder watches, his eyes sharp o'er the rim of his bowl and steam lighting upon his brow.

At last I nod, unable to speak and the Mistress presses it into my hands where it feels both heavy and cold. She is silent while I slip it into the basket and I know not what to do next.

The Elder sets his bowl down with a sharp clatter, smacking his lips and frowning.

"When is supper?" he demands loudly, breaking the silence.

"Father," Mistress Pelara says, her voice sharp, "in a good while. There is no need to rush our guest off. She's barely finished her tea."

I stand and stammer, "No, mistress, I have overstayed my time."

She clucks her tongue looking from me to her father and then cocks her head at the old man, who peers up at her with his watery eyes.

"Mayhap, Father, you would see fit to give our guest a proper farewell," she says loudly.

"Bid you good day, Nienelen," he croaks, looking my way briefly ere his gaze returns to his daughter and he shrugs.

"Very well," she says, throwing up her hands. "_My thanks to thee_, Nienelen," she says. "Should you have need of aught else ere you are to go, I am sure we can see it done."

"Thank you, Mistress. Bid you good day," I say, touching my fingers to my brow.

As I go, the Elder strokes the wool of my father's cloak and I know he must think of it warming his own bones, cold for their want of marrow, but his daughter plucks it from under his hand, giving him only the cluck of her tongue in exchange. But then, once the wool is put away, his daughter plucks the cap from her father's head, only to smooth his thin white hair and drop a kiss onto the top of his head ere replacing it. He beams up at her ere returning to sipping his tea.

~oOo~


	4. Chapter 3

~ Chapter 3 ~

_'But I shall die,' said Aragorn. 'For I am a mortal man, and though being what I am and of the race of the West unmingled, I shall have life far longer than other men, yet that is but a little while.'_

ROTK: The Steward and the King

~oOo~

_~ TA 3007, 5th day of Gwirith: Charges: six pennies of good copper from Mistress Fuller in exchange for three full bars of woad dye, to be no less in weight than those traded on TA 3006, 25th day of Ivanneth. - Quarter mark weight each._

~oOo~

'Tis much cold to be working in the garden over water and a tentative fire, but I had little choice. Pale shapes of leaves swirl in the depths of the slick dark mass in the pot as I stir, surfacing briefly as fish that rise in the river. The juice of the woad plant stains my hands, a blue sunk into each line and crevice of my skin up to my elbows, bright upon my palms and deeply shadowed against the dark warmth of my skin. Glad I am for the ragged sheet I have tied about my person, for it now bears streaks and handprints upon it. Though I will scrub, I shall have ghostly hands for days to come. But, once this soup of leaves is strained and dried into cakes, it can be used to dye wool a beautiful blue, dark and as rich as the summer sky at twilight, its color hardy against soap, hot water, or sun.

The sun glows warmly against the back wall of my father's house. Ever I shall remember it so, even now, these days of spring when the first fingers of flowering vines break the earth and reach for the stones. Soon, I would have brought my mother's bay tree and aloe in their pots into the garden where they could feel the sun. Soon, my father would have sat in the midst of his seedlings and put us to the task of making his plans for the season's planting come to be. His square palms and thick fingers rough with calluses from the weapons he carried when he ranged far from the Angle, he would press them into the dirt and drink of its smell as he laid tender shoots to bed.

The dye simmers thickly and I glance at the back door to the house. Should I leave the brew to the fire? _Ai!_ So much still to do. Yet, it seems I can make no decision in this tangle of unfinished tasks, turning restlessly from one to the other without bringing any to completion.

"Bid you good morrow, Nienelen," a voice calls.

I drop the spoon into the pot, for the voice is deep of timbre.

Catching the glimpse of a tall, dark-headed man with light eyes set within his pale face, I whirl about and squint into the sun. It seemed, for a brief moment, my father had returned and called me to him. But it is not so, and my betrayed heart beats wildly for no good reason. It is Ranger Halbarad, whom, of late, I have seen more days in a row than I can put together in the past ten years. He stands at the corner of the house with his hands resting upon the gate, and there waits with uneasy patience for me to acknowledge him.

I dry my hands and leave the pot untended for the moment, my decision made for me.

"Sir," I say, nodding my head in greeting, my awkwardness matched only by his own as he steps back from the gate for me to open it.

As when he had lifted the bough to ease my passage under the trees, his eyes fill with a meaning at which I can only guess. For a man with whom I have exchanged precious little speech in my life, I marvel he has somewhat to say to me now. With dread, I can only think he comes with words of consolation. The funeral meats have been eaten, the guests have gone, and I have bartered away my father's things. Dust now collects beneath his empty chair. So, when the Ranger walks through the gate and stands within my father's sleeping garden, looking steadily at his feet, to my shame, I hope only he intends to be brief.

"My thanks to you for coming," say I. "My father oft spoke of the esteem in which he held you. You do him honor."

His eyes flash upon me for an instant, and, had I not known otherwise, I would have thought I had caught him by surprise.

Bowing his head, Halbarad says, "As I have held him. I am sorry for the loss you suffer. I know I shall find my days much diminished by his passing." His gaze is solemn and somewhat of weariness and regret passes in his eyes.

With that, we stand upon the lawn of the croft, one watching the other. With a sinking heart I realize he has more to say than a brief exchange in the garden will suffice.

"Would you come inside and take refreshment?"

He shifts on his feet and squints at the door, to my confusion saying neither yea nor nay. "I had hoped to speak to your aunt and have only now learned of her passing. I am grieved I did not come earlier, had I any comfort to offer."

I have naught to say but bow my head and hope that my silence does not offend.

"But -" He grimaces, glancing swiftly from the house to me, as were he pressed by great need and debating his course. "But, in truth, my intentions in coming here were otherwise. Our days fall short and give me little choice."

He pauses and draws a quick breath, clasping his arms behind his back. "I have a thing to ask of you," he says, and then continues in the tongue of the elves, "_shouldst thee permit it_."

I nod and wait for him to continue.

"Nienelen, I have a thing to ask you of marriage."

With that, I blink at him in surprise and, at first, can think of naught to say. I cannot deny he is a fine figure of a man, the closest kin of the Dúnadan and known for valor in his own right, as eligible as any man in the Angle. And true, he has a reputation for a quiet nature and so would give little sign of his thoughts, but, natheless, I am at a loss to explain how, after all this time, he came to fasten upon the idea of taking me to wife.

I am frowning and staring at him. With haste, I assemble my features into a more pleasing form, for I do not wish to give offense. "I thank you for your attentions, Halbarad, but I had no warning of your desire."

He reddens and blinks at me in turn. His face has turned to stone.

_Ai!_ This is going badly.

"Mayhap, it would be best –" I say, stumbling upon my words.

"Nienelen," he interrupts. "I beg your pardon. It was not my intent to mislead you," he says stiffly and bows his head in apology. "I do not speak on my own behalf. I come upon the authority granted me by another."

"Oh," is all I can think to say. I stare at him.

"Mayhap, could we sit."

"Oh," say I, shaken out of my bemusement. "Oh. Aye."

I wipe my hands at my apron, forgetting that woad stains all it touches and the color is deep in the grain of my skin. I take up the ladle and stir the contents of the cauldron one last time. It will do. It must do. Dousing the flames allows me to look elsewhere other than at the man who stands stiffly just outside my reach. No doubt he is as grateful for the reprieve as am I.

When I lead him into the house, we stand in the doorway. I am uncertain as to where to sit him down. The fire upon the hearth is banked and the hall is full of baskets and piles of the small items that keep a household warm, fed, and occupied. Shutters and rugs hang across the windows, not yet removed from the winter and, but for the light that spills in behind us, it is dark inside.

Decided, I enter and lift blankets from a low couch that sits near the hearth.

"I am sorry I cannot make you more comfortable." I drop the pile upon a table, but he merely shakes his head and follows my steps into the room.

"I will be comfortable enough," says he, though I doubt the conversation to follow will have much of ease about it.

As he seats himself, I pull the rug from the window behind him and lay it aside. Lowering the shutters does much to lend light to the room, but little comfort given the disarray and the lack of a fire. As I lift the turfs from the hearth, the banked coals provide a welcome warmth, faint though it is. My hands are cold from working with water on a chill day, my knuckles stiff and cracked.

"I am afraid I have little to offer you." I stir the ashes and lay kindling atop the fire. "I have let much of our stores dwindle. But I have small ale, should that do."

"It will. I would be pleased should you join me."

He has been watching me, seated on the couch, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped between them, kneading his fingers. He is not at ease. But his courtesy is soothing, and it is with a lighter heart I leave him there to find him refreshment.

I return to find Halbarad puzzling over the tangle of yarns, lathes, and clay weights dangling from the warp of the tall loom leaning against the wall. 'Tis the name of Vairë the Weaver burned deep to the wood of the heavy warp beam that seems to catch his eye and set him to frowning in thought. The Ranger's expression is nigh one of relief when I return and offer him a cup. He takes it, bowing his head in thanks when I settle upon a bench across from him. The fire has caught, the flames pouring across the dry wood as we drink in silence. I have unwound the sheet from around my middle and settled my plaited curls in the scarf I wear. I am warm, should I not be comfortable.

"When had you planned to leave?" Halbarad asks, breaking the quiet.

I shift in my seat ere answering. "When the company of dwarves from the Blue Mountains come down the Great East Road."

He nods. "Aye," says he, and sighs. "Along with others. Do you wish it, to leave the Angle?"

I hardly know. My wounds are too fresh and each step upon my father's house and the lands about them bring a fresh pain. Yet, I know not should I find what awaits me elsewhere a greater burden.

"I had not expected to receive an offer of betrothal to keep me here."

"Not betrothal, Nienelen," says he and his sudden gravity silences me. "There will be no troth-plighting. No year of contemplation. What I have brought is an offer to be wedded."

"Wedded?"

"Wedded." His eyes search my face.

"Wedded?"

It seems I cannot put two words of sense together.

"Aye," he says and is about to speak further, but I hold up a hand to stop him.

I can call to mind a handful of Rangers of Halbarad's acquaintance that may require a wife but have not the inclination to woo her, all older and unmarried or bereft of wife. But I cannot think of one who could not ask for my hand himself and could not put aside his urgency to observe the rituals of our people. The intended groom may have had time to come to his decision, but what of the time the bride might need? What manner of man was this?

"Ranger Halbarad?" I ask, "Might I be so bold as to request his name?"

"This will be a marriage of duty." He clears his throat, rubbing the lip of the cup with his thumb.

"Aye, that is understood."

"And it is to be offered with certain expectations," he says and pauses, reluctant, it seems, to continue.

But I can only remain silent. I have little idea as to his thoughts and his disinclination to name the groom does not bode well.

"It is required that you be able to perform certain duties."

"So I gather," say I when he pauses for what seems an interminable moment.

"The groom requires that I inquire as to your ability to perform them ere he requests your hand."

"Aye, and should you name them I might have a better chance at knowing what answer to give him," I say, but instantly regret my impetuous tongue.

By now, Halbarad, Ranger of the North, has fallen mute and a faint pink paints his jaw and cheeks. His eyes wander into his cup and seem to have become lost there.

"Ah," I say in dawning comprehension. "I take it they are of a delicate nature."

It is little wonder, then, he had hoped to speak with my elder. He nods and does not lose any of the heat that suffuses his face. But it cannot be helped, and, I think, should this discussion proceed, 'tis I who must plunge on.

"Mayhap having to do with my ability to bear children of him," I say, and he nods. 'Tis not an uncommon condition placed upon arranged marriages between our folk and does not surprise me.

"Ah."

I settle back into my seat. The awkward solemnity of the man now rubbing his thumb against his cup weighs upon me. It seems wise to make no promises I cannot keep.

"I can only say I have no reason to believe I am not capable of bearing children, but I have no reason to know with certainty that I am."

His eyes flash from the cup to my face and study me intently. It is my turn for my skin to heat. I do so most unwillingly and can only hope the darker coloring of my skin will hide the warmth of my blood better than it had the Ranger's. So, the groom had demanded another condition.

"There have been no others to put it to the test," I declare flatly.

"Then the requirements are met," says he and, taking a deep breath, sets his cup aside. He stands and extends his hand for mine. Though unsure, I lay my hand in his. For naught else, I shall soon learn the name of the groom and bring this riddle to an end.

He lets my fingers lie lightly upon his and speaks, his voice grown formal. "Nienelen, daughter of Melendir, I have been charged to request your hand by the Lord of the Dúnedain, Aragorn, Arathorn's son. He asks that you bind yourself to him, take upon yourself the duties as is proper of his lady and the mother of his heirs, and accept his safekeeping of your self and the children you bear of him."

I jerk my hand from his as had it burned.

"What manner of jest is this?" I demand, fighting hot, sudden tears. I can only think I have been played the fool for his amusement. I had not known him capable of such cruelty.

Halbarad stares at me, stunned. He then grabs for my hand again and sits.

"Nienelen!" he says, pressing my fingers in his to gain my attention. "In truth, I make no sport of this!"

Thoughts whirl in my mind but make no sense. I stare at him without word, but my eyes must beg for answers. He releases me and scrubs at his brow, sighing. When his hand falls to his knee, it reveals not the face of one of our lord's Rangers, but that of his friend and kinsman. He kneads his hands, quiet a moment.

"Our lord requires an heir," he says, his voice so low it is as were he pleading with me.

My thoughts range o'er the words that have been said between us and I can draw but one conclusion. I feel cold, as had a sudden chill stolen upon me.

"Then he is as they say?"

Halbarad's face speaks eloquently enough of his concern that he need say naught.

I rise swiftly from my seat, grabbing onto my arms and pace the short distance between my bench and the baskets that impede my way. 'Tis not so much that I am thinking, but that I must take time for what has been said to settle. It is as had I taken in a large gulp of wine and must clear my head.

"When?"

"Should you be willing, tonight."

I suck in a breath in dismay. Urgent, indeed.

Halbarad speaks, watching me anxiously, "Our folk refurbish his family's house even now, so you may make your home there after the wedding."

I know the place of which he speaks. When our lord's lady mother returned to live among us again, she had taken up the house of her husband's family and abandoned it only when they carried her to the barrows just these few months past.

Ah, but should I bear an heir of this marriage and my lord fail, I shall be as alone as his lady mother in the child's rearing. I place hands on either side of my face to cool my brow. My thoughts spin in my head as so many leaves in an autumn storm, I grasp one and the wind rips it from my fingers.

Halbarad awaits my answer. I sit, and his hands fall still, but he does not speak. No matter my thoughts, for, in this, reason cannot lead me. 'Tis my heart to which I must listen.

"Yes," I say.

Halbarad looks at me as could he not bring himself to trust what he hears. "What answer shall I take?"

"I am beholden to my lord, what else am I to say, but aye?" I throw up my shaking hands with a wry, soft laugh. When they fall, I rub my palms along my skirts. "Should my lord judge it best, I will lay myself in his hands."

"This is for you to say whether you are willing or no," Halbarad urges, seeking my eyes and looking at me kindly, with an earnest pity.

"I will it. I shall do as he asks."

He seems to breathe deeply and his shoulders gentle as had a great burden been lifted from him. "Then I shall be pleased to take your answer to our lord," he says and rises.

Halbarad looks upon me from his great height. By the set of his mouth and eyes I know he is pleased. Somewhat of hope seems to warm his gaze.

"I must return to our lord." He nods almost as he were requesting permission to leave and, with little thought, I nod in return. At that, he strides to the door.

"But I must first to the house of Master Maurus from whence his daughter will come to attend to you."

I have followed and open the door for him. There he takes my hand in farewell, bowing over it formally.

"_My thanks to thee,_" he says, and then goes on with added emphasis, "_my lady_."

It seems my heart freezes for moment, ere beating again. It comes to me only now I have accepted far more than role of wife and mother.

~oOo~


	5. Chapter 4

~ Chapter 4 ~

_'The counsel of Gandalf was not founded on foreknowledge of safety, for himself or for others,' said Aragorn. 'There are some things that it is better to begin than to refuse, even though the end may be dark.'_

TTT: The Riders of Rohan

~oOo~

_~TA 3008: 5th day of Gwirith: -House of Melendir, with its toft, garden, sheds, and furnishings to remain property of Nienelen, his remaining daughter. Tithes due the House of Isildur fully discharged and as of this day in abeyance. All lidded baskets of wool and linen and the tools of their shaping in the hall; one tall loom in the hall; one low chest of cedar and all clothing, combs, jars, soaps, and cloths therein in the hall; three oil lamps in the hall; own bound journal of sketches of heddle wrapping, list of dye ingredients, and lays of the clan of the Nadhorim; one writing desk of walnut with this book, parchments, quill, pumice, penknife, and ink horn in the hall; one potted bay tree in the hall; one potted aloe plant in the hall; leather bucket and tools therein in the garden; and all pots, baskets, buckets, ewers, and other such wares in the buttery to be conveyed to the Chieftain's house on this day. Six hens and one rooster to be placed in the care of the house of Elder Maurus until sent for. All foodstuffs of dried herbs, butter, greens, salted pork, cracker, ale, roots, grains, flours, pease, lentils, and beans; and all other clothing, blankets, lamp oil, mattresses, and tools to be taken possession of by the Elders of the Council to be distributed as they see fit. _

~oOo~

My head is crowned with the earliest blooms of the brier rose. Pink and white their petals flutter as I spin the stem between my bound hands.

"Stop that," Mistress Pelara scolds around the rose she holds pressed between her lips.

I sit upon a bench in the room I once shared with the women of my house and bend my head beneath her strong fingers.

Here, in this very room, we had gathered the leaves of the beech, my aunt and I, and wove of them a crown for my sister to wear. Here, in the warmth of the autumn sun that lay as coverlet upon our bed, we drank deep of a light, yellow wine from our folk to the south, sent by her betrothed. Once more deeply in our cups, my sister told scandalous tales of the marriage bed that set my aunt to gasping.

"Laenor!" she cried. _"Sayest not such things!" _She took then to a whisper. _"Or wouldst thou not cease, sayest them not so loudly your father were to hear._"

Here, we laved rose water and almond oil into Laenor's hair and painted her lips with redcurrants and honey. And when we had settled her dress to her shoulders, we twined and wound her raven curls about her head and pinned to them the band of leaves. Golden they glowed against her hair and skin, but still could not rival the light that shown in her dark eyes below them. Here, she had clasped my hands in hers and begged me to be happy for her, and so I had been, for a little.

Here, too, my aunt lay in her last days. The cloud of her white hair lay about her head. Her cheeks, once the pink of the first apples of summer, seemed shrunken and devoid of all color in the thin flickering light of the brazier I set beside our bed to keep her warm. Atimes, when her thin blue of her eyes sharpened, and she knew me, she begged me to forgive her in the dry croak that was left of her voice. She would not have it that I spend my days rattling about in the echoes of my family's hall with none for company between my father's visits, but knew it not to be helped. I gave what comfort I could. A cool cloth upon her brow. A clean bed. Deep draughts of water steeped in mandrake to ease her pain and bring her sleep. And my acceptance. But in the end, when she let loose her breath as were it the unwinding of a long, thin thread and would not rouse to my touch, I could not stop but take her hand and weep over it, pleading for her, too, not to leave me here.

Mistress Pelara plucks the rose from between my hands and through dint of prodding and scraping the stem against my head, she sets it to place in my hair with the others.

"There!" says she and twists my shoulders to and fro, the better to examine her work. She tugs here and pulls there at the flowers and braids in my hair. "Aye, that will do, I think."

With that, she pulls free the ends of the linen wound about one and another of my hands, where she had slathered them with a salve of fat and chamomile. She had taken my hands each in her broad palms and rubbed it into skin made sore through dint of scrubbing with river sand, and then wrapped them in strips of linen to better take the remedy.

"Aye, well, we've done what we can there," she says ere releasing my hands.

A distant jingling of harness and clopping of hooves interrupts us and we turn to the window at the noise. It comes as little surprise, but still, at the sound, I feel as had I swallowed a bowl of stones.

"That would be the cart, then," says the mistress. She drops the linen strips in a heap upon the tall chest, where they join the litter of wrinkled and brown petals she had plucked from the flowers. "Leave those, Nienelen," she says when I move to brush them into a pile. "I will get them upon the morrow when we come to inventory what is left behind."

With that she grabs up the combs, wooden tweezer, linens, various jars, and scissors with which she had done her work and, placing them in a basket, walks briskly out the door into my father's hall.

"Ranger Halbarad will follow soon enough, so, should it please you, Nienelen, take a care not to worry at the flowers ere he arrives."

I hear her moving about in the hall, putting the fire to rights and putting things away until, by the sound of rattling of the wheels and hard, quick footsteps outside my father's door, the cart that shall take her to our lord's house has arrived.

I should thank her.

"There, that should leave you with naught but the shutters in your room and the lamps. Take care not to spatter the oil. The Valar knows we shall never get it out should it spoil that dress."

"Nienelen?" she calls from the other room and I should speak.

"Well then," she says low and with that, the mistress is gone and soon the cart rumbles from my hearing.

I douse the lamps but one, careful to hold aside my long sleeves for fear of catching them in the flames. For a moment, I watch the flickering of the one remaining flame and listen as the wind rises. Leaves rustle afore its fitful breath, scattering about the path that runs afore my father's home. A glance out upon the track ere I lift the shutters and fix them in place, and I bite at my lip. The way is clear. There is naught but gathering clouds and rising wind.

For want of aught else to do, I wander the room, touching upon the wool that covers the bed I shared with my aunt and sister. Here I had slept alone and, of late, been troubled by dreams of a child's fretful cries amidst the smell of wine and a bitterness I could not place. And when I had not those, I dreamt of shores I had ne'er seen, and the swell of waves that lapped at stone walls, the light from above glimmering upon them. I know them not. Here, 'tis but a small world within the circle of light cast by the lamp I bear, but it is mine. Aye, there is yet more wideness of the world beyond this. But it does not have them in it.

_Ai!_ With the suddenness of the thought my hand jerks and oil spatters upon the floor.

The hall is dark and filled with unknown shapes as I stumble through it without heed. Dropping the lamp to my father's table, I shove aside and lift baskets, chests, and piles of small items in a pile upon the buttery door. I care not for this dress nor the silks that fall from it.

_Oh, Nienna, have pity on me. Where could it be?_

It seems I put my hand upon it of a chance in this the twilight of the hall. A round thing of tightly twined reed it is. I take it with me to my father's table and then set it afore me as I sit. It is a small basket of my aunt's sewing. I had not thought to send it ahead of me to my lord's hall, for I have my own and much of the tools of the house were shared between us and carry her memories there. I have little that was my sister's, for she had taken much with her of her own when she left.

At the bottom of the basket I find it, much as I had remembered, a small purse of sky-blue linen much adorned with threads the green of new-furled leaves and burnished gold. From it I draw but a small plait of dark, tightly-curled hair. My aunt had clipped it from my sister's head that night, nigh on four years now, when we, the women of her family, had bathed and dressed her for the last time. She put it here, where it would be near, but she had no need to look upon it.

Ah, I must be swift.

I draw out a length of linen cord and, with a hand that shakes so that I despair of threading it through a bone needle, I fasten a length about the mouth of the purse, so it may draw it closed and hang from my neck.

When I draw it about my head, I must tug upon the knots so that it hangs low, and there I can tuck it beneath the fine silks. I care not should it sit as a lump between my breasts but clutch at it through the fabric.

Aye, now, now I can sit upon the bench in what was my father's hall and wait.

~oOo~

That night, of all nights, it rained. Oft, since then, have I wondered what portents the weather told. Clouds hung heavy in the sky as I rode to my lord's family home. Dark they scudded against the far horizon and hid the sun's setting. It is said rain upon the day of a wedding brings good luck, a blessing of fertility upon both land and wife. Mayhap it is so.

The horse I rode was not mine, nor was the dress found for me to wear. Indeed, I was lifted atop my lord's own mare, her coat a grey the color of unburnished steel, and her mane wound with ribbons. I ride seldom, and my lord's mare is many hands tall, but, as he led the horse, Halbarad set a gentle pace and she moved easily. I, on the other hand, clung to the high saddle and struggled with the wind for control of my dress and the mantle that hung from my shoulders.

The velvet garment was beautiful, of a rich, dark gloss I had not heretofore seen. Tiny stars sparkled in clusters at the neckline and hem, both lower than is my wont. The fabric of the sleeves was a silk so fine they floated in the slightest breeze. I wrapped the sleeves about my hands and was grateful for their length, for my fingers and nails still bore the mark of woad leaves, lending them an age greater than my years. The mantle, of the same material as the sleeves, drifted shimmering behind me as we moved. The dress was overlong for me, for it had been my lord's lady mother's, brought with her from the house of Master Elrond when she removed herself hence. The lady Gilraen was a woman of fairness of frame as well as face. I was not so tall.

Natheless, so we proceed, I atop my lord's mount, and his kin striding tall and silent afore me, his hands upon the reins and halter of the steed. Ribbons of a light green stream from where they are tied to his belt and catch the eye among his somber gear. Glad am I for Halbarad's quiet, for I cannot think what I would say in reply to even the simplest of speech.

_Ai!_ What terrible pride or perversity forced me to give my consent to this marriage?

The steady clopping of hooves draws our folk from their homes and they stand in their doors to watch as we pass. Many nod in greeting at their lord's lady and salute their lord's man. A young girl, her dark hair bouncing upon her shoulders as she runs from her granddame's side, lifts a handful of flowers plucked from the forest. I clutch at the saddle, for I must lean dangerously low to receive them, though she stands on the tips of her toes.

"Blessings upon you and our lord," she recites in a breathless rush as our hands meet.

I hold the bluebells lightly, fearful of crushing their delicate stems, and stare as she runs back to her family's side. She is not the only to offer me flowers, and soon my hands are full of the delicate white petals of nightcap, the bold yellow of buttercup, and the soft pink of butterbur, as well. With each touch exchanged when they press flowers into my hands, it seems the pit of my stomach drops further, for eyes old and young, man and woman search mine. What sign they seek from me, they do not say, but my heart tells me they wish for hope. So should I wish, were our places reversed.

We collect people in our wake as were we riding the current of some slow-moving stream. Soon, the women of the Angle follow us, leading their children by the hand. At first, their look is subdued and their voices soft. But, when we reach the last of the homes, first one and then other voices rise in song. The women begin to clap, and their steps match the brisk tempo of the music they sing. Smiles warm their faces.

They weave a tale of two young lovers who meet by chance by the river. They sing of hands that touch, of kisses sought and kisses found. Much more is alluded to but not fully said. 'Tis a song of love offered and love received. I go not to a lover's house, yet it lightens my heart, for it brings a faint blush upon Halbarad's cheeks and, though his manner is forthright in all other things, he cannot seem to meet their eyes. This, more than aught else, makes me smile. 'Tis not oft my lord's Rangers find themselves out of their depths.

When we come within sight of his family's home, my lord steps from his door to stand in the midst of his men clustered upon his croft. My heart thuds to a stop and I know, now, there is no turning back. He is much as I remember him, dark of hair, tall of frame, keen of eye, and grim of countenance. His look is resolute, as he is in all things. I am less well acquainted with the marks that mar his face and the hollows that darken his eyes and cheeks. About him he bears the pains of battle but barely healed, as do his men. His breath is shallow, and he stands very still, as should he dare not move. Yet, he holds himself with a quiet authority that even this cannot abuse. Were you to come upon this gathering and not know who he is, still your eye would be drawn to him.

The light laughter of women must be a welcome thing to Rangers' ears, for the eyes of the men about my lord gleam with a warm light as they wait, holding aloft torches that flare in the false twilight of the heavy sky. Their flames sputter and stream upon the fitful wind as they watch our arrival. Halbarad's gaze has sought my lord out and he measures him with nigh the care I take as well. I think then, should he have the strength to stand so tall, mayhap my lord is not so bad as they say. I know not what are Halbarad's thoughts.

My lord's thoughts are the more plain to tell. When I meet his gaze, I refuse the reserve that rises within me. His glance is sharp, appraising me keenly and, as I lean upon Halbarad's shoulder to alight to the ground, it lends steel to my spine. 'Twas my lord who asked for my hand, be he satisfied with what he sees or no. I must lift my chin to meet his gaze, for he is a full head taller than I, and when I do so, somewhat about his look gentles.

I keep my eyes upon my lord, hoping to forget all those assembled here. I do not think I have e'er had as many of our folk looking upon me at once, and I fear most to trip upon the overlong skirts I wear. The thought of sprawling upon the ground afore my lord in the company of his Rangers on such an occasion both alarms and amuses me, so that when I come to him, I need not betray my misgivings so easily should he look for them.

I shall not enter his house until we are wed, so my journey ends when I stand afore my groom. The wind stirs his hair, sending tendrils across his face, and lifts my sleeves and mantle to dance about me. With it, the air brings the smell of the softness of night and wet earth. My lord's voice is deep when he says his first words to me. Though he speaks low, as were it just the two of us here, in the hush that has settled upon the gathering I think even those upon its fringes know what he asks.

"Lady," he says, "you know what it is that has been asked of you?"

"Aye, my lord."

"And you are willing?" His eyes search my face.

"I am."

"Then let us proceed."

His face loses none of its hardness of expression when he steps back and nods to his kin, nor does his voice betray feeling. I know not how he perceives our union, but, natheless, it is soon to be.

We have neither mother nor father between us to join our hands, so it is Ranger Halbarad who comes to stand at our sides.

_"Who is it would take this daughter of the Dúnedain?"_ And so, he begins the ritual with the tongue of the Elves and the lifting of my lord's hand.

_"It is I, Aragorn, Arathornion,"_ my lord says, his voice smooth and sure._ "Afore my kin gathered here and in the presence of the One, I bind myself to this daughter of the Dúnedain. May they hear and consecrate my oath. Here and from henceforward, I vow to give her and the children she bears of me my name and my safekeeping."_

_"Who is this would give her hand?" _asks Ranger Halbarad as he raises his own to me. Mixed with the words of binding, thunder rumbles distantly above our heads.

I lift my hand and he clasps my fingers firmly between his.

_"It is I, Nienelen, Melendiriell,"_ I say, bringing as much force to my voice as I am able to overcome the sound of thunder and rising wind._ "Afore my kin gathered here and in the presence of the One, I bind myself to this son of the Dúnedain. May he hear and accept my oath. Here and from henceforward, I vow to take upon myself the duties of his lady, to provide for the safekeeping of my lord, his people and his heirs, as my lord commands."_

_"Then I pass her into thy care, Aragorn, Arathornion, and to that of thy house. May thy days with her be filled with the blessings of the Valar." _

So saying, Ranger Halbarad passes my hand to my lord, who takes it in his own. He lifts it afore him. His knuckles are much battered, but his touch gentle. I feel the first drop strike my shoulder and find that my lord's sleeve is spotted with rain. As he speaks, Halbarad tugs the ribbons from where they are tied about his belt. The wind catches them, and they flicker in the firelight.

_"Thus do I receive the hand of Nienelen, Dúnedainiell,_" my lord says, and his kinsman captures the ends of the shimmering bits of cloth and winds them about our clasped hands, _"I accept and hold her vow and count myself blessed."_

About us, rain strikes the leaves and roof with a restless patter. Ranger Halbarad tucks in the ends of the ribbon gently so that the wind will not pull them asunder and releases us.

_"Thus do I forsake the house of my father for that of Aragorn, son and Lord of the Dúnedain,"_ I say, "_and count myself blessed."_

Ranger Halbarad steps aside and winces as a drop falls upon his brow. Light splits the shrouded sky asunder and here and there the folk gathered there shift and turn their faces to the darkening sky. A wind chill with the touch of rain rushes through the trees and, lifting my mantle, tosses it about my head.

I struggle to contain its flapping, but my free hand is filled with flowers and I cannot grasp upon the fabric. I am trapped in a film of silk and do not see the corner of the cloth that floats dangerously close to the torch until my lord steps afore the flames, grabbing the material. He waits until the wind abates, his breath shallow, and face pale and quite still, ere drawing the mantle from about my head and letting it drift behind me.

"Come, let us inside," my lord says, drawing my wide-eyed gaze away from the flames. With our hands bound, he leads me through the door and into my new home.

~oOo~


	6. Chapter 5

~ Chapter 5 ~

_Then Éowyn looked in the eyes of Aragorn, and she said: 'Wish me joy, my liege-lord and healer!'_

_And he answered: 'I have wished thee joy ever since first I saw thee. It heals my heart to see thee now in bliss.'_

ROTK: Many Partings

~oOo~

_~ TA 3007, 5th day of Gwirith: Soft, high clouds at dawn. Low fog. No frost. Chill winds from the north by mid-morn. Darkening clouds at the evening hours. Rain atimes from sun's setting until first light the next._

~oOo~

It is as had the dams of the sky opened and a great river floods the valley. Rain pours from the clouds, rustling in the thatch above our heads and pounding against the ground beyond the walls. Thunder grumbles and rolls o'er the tops of the trees and e'er so oft the wind sends spatters of rain in through the windows.

My lord's hall stands tall, from floor to rafters near twice the height of any dwelling to be found here upon the Angle. Long windows open above our heads into the rain and chill night air. The uncovered hearth in the midst of the room burns brightly and the torches are brought indoors. The hall is ablaze with light and sound, and water pours in a shimmering curtain of silver and gold threads of reflected flame from beyond the open casements.

Here, my lord and I sit among his guests. Our lord's men, their women, holders of the pledge, and their wives are in attendance, heating the room quickly. The Angle's Council, too, attend upon their lord and his new wife, all but Master Bachor. And though, without him there, it leaves me the sole Dúnedain of dark skin in a whirl of white faces, I suppose I should become accustomed to it, after all, and it is best he has absented himself. His presence would do little to bring me comfort.

Our hands bound fast throughout the feast and one bowl and trencher afore us, my lord and I will eat little should we not seek help from the other. I have attended a good number of wedding feasts and have seen many a couple make a game of the repast. They tease with bites of the bounty of forest and field and sneak kisses between, when they think the company does not perceive. Others are so shy their guests must ply them with wine and pound the boards until they are appeased for a short while with a kiss. Others are more bold and care not who looks upon them, so great is the passion and head full of wine they share.

My lord and I share neither of these. Our cup stands nigh full and seldom does his glance stray to mine o'er the meal. He eats lightly, and the time between mouthfuls lengthens. When I offer to help him cut more of his meat, my lord declines with a quick shake of his fingers. It is good my appetite has fled with the discomfort of noise and unease, for I would not ask my lord to wear himself thin just to give me aid.

I sit beside my bridegroom and let the company whirl about. My shoulders are stiff and my back aches, for I hold myself rigidly in my seat. The groom looks no more easy than the bride. His hand is chill beneath mine and he does not speak. Our food grows cold long ere the meal is done. Our only blessing is that the guests do not come near enough to demand speech with my lord and none have called for him to show me the fondness expected of a groom for his bride. It is plain to me, who sits so near, that he tires swiftly.

It is with relief, then, the feast seems to be drawing to a close. Bowls are emptied and pushed away, and the guests pluck at the corners of the trenchers of day-old bread, soaked as they are now with the juices of roasted meats and a sauce of garlic and thyme. I think the meal shall soon be done and the dancing take its place. I would not deny our folk their one chance of late to invite joy and it seems my lord is of like mind, but the quicker this evening ends, I think, the better.

Soon, I hope, the women will lead me up the stairs and there prepare me to await my groom in the solar where he sleeps. It is enough to know the company shall watch me as I go. It is enough I go to meet a man who is far beyond my ken, more myth than flesh and blood breathing beside me. I know him not. I am grateful my lord's men have been merciful and spared me greater acquaintance with their chieftain where all can watch. It shall be enough to be pinned beneath my lord's own gaze. The waiting grates upon me. The sooner it is just he and I, the sooner that, too, will be done.

"My lord!" a voice calls and our eyes are drawn to the tables across from the hearth. There stands one of his Rangers, a young lad with a round, pleasant face.

"Aye, Gelir," my lord says, and his guests quiet the better to hear him. All about us faces turn to the hearth.

"I have a boon to beg," my lord's man says, and turns to the company and raises his wine, his eyes alight with mischief.

"Ah, Gelir," I hear. His friends laugh and call, "Sit down, there."

Yet he is determined. My lord's man remains steadfast and backs away from playful hands that seek to cuff him or pull him to sitting. Those Rangers elder to his years smile and lean in one to the other to whisper and exchange a meaningful glance. It seems they know him well and are not surprised.

"Nay, nay!" he cries, laughing and protecting his cup. "Is this not a wedding feast? Forgive me, my lord, I could not tell."

My lord says naught, but he attends. His brow rises, and his look is gently amused, and by that his man takes heart.

"Does there not seem to be one thing yet lacking?" He extends a falsely bewildered look to the company and then smiles broadly. "My lord, you are known for stealth, having been tutored in the ways of it by the Elder-born. You must forgive these mortal eyes had they missed it, but I have not seen even one kiss betwixt my lord and his bride."

The men laugh and shake their heads.

"You shall make a fool of yourself, yet, Gelir!" I hear called from a Ranger who would have a thin, mournful look but for the smile that lights his face.

The man shrugs and looks out among the company. "Have you?"

"Nay, not I!" comes from the far side of the hall and now the guests turn about in their seats, their eyes bright and expectant.

I catch a brief glimpse of Mistress Pelara. Her duties of cooking and serving done, she sits upon her chair surrounded by her kin. Our healer, Mistress Nesta sits beside her and there she leans from her seat the better to see.

"Nor I," comes a low steady voice from a man with silver hair and sharp features. His arms crossed, he leans back against the wall and stretches his long legs afore him. At his word, somewhat of hush settles upon the company.

At this, Ranger Gelir beams and turns to my groom. "What say you, my lord? Shall you not give us satisfaction?"

With that, Gelir is not the only man standing. There they rise and call out my lord's name. As were it in echo, the hall takes up the call, and a drumming upon the tables rises from about us. Very quickly it is loud, buffeting against my ears, and the faces of all the company are turned to my lord and I. For all its usual subtlety, Halbarad's look is thunderous, his eyes glinting sharply beneath his brow. I shall not be greatly surprised should my lord's Ranger find himself assigned the most onerous of duties come the next week and the next following it. He heeds the threat not, but raises a cup to his lord, his smile broad and laughter on his lips.

After some hesitance, my lord's smile is fond as he gazes out upon his man, and by this I know he will comply. My heart beats so at this thought that, when my lord turns to me, I think all must hear it. I, myself, hear little o'er the pounding on the tables. My lord's eyes are upon me, and I am pierced by the sharpness of his gaze.

_Ai_, had I not drunk more wine when I had the chance!

The men pound all the louder and the tempo of their beat quickens. Yet, still, he does not move, and indeed, my lord breathes deeply as were he preparing himself to exert great effort to bridge the distance between us. Only then does it come to me what this kiss will demand from my lord in pain.

This should not be! Is not my lord's discomfort sufficient suffering, that he must seek out more to appease them? Ere I give it more thought and convince myself otherwise, I launch myself o'er the rest where our hands are bound and press my lips to those of my lord's. I come nigh to knocking his head into the back of his chair for the force with which I fly at him.

I think, at first, a great gasp arises from my lord's guests, but then the hall roars loud with approval so I am nigh deaf for it. Laughter beams from my lord's men's faces and the women hide their glee behind their hands. They shout and strike their tables and pound the floor. For want of practice, I am sure I lack gentleness and skill, but my lord cannot say the kiss was wanting in its effect.

When I pull away from him, my lord's look is stunned, but soon a slow smile softens his features. He then laughs low and his eyes light as he wipes at his lips. So great is my shame I cannot look upon him or any of his guests. I all but cower in my chair, wishing for naught more than my hand was free, so I might flee the hall.

My lord lifts his cup from the table and silently salutes his men as they cheer him on, calling his name, raising their cups to his, and laughing. When he drinks, they do the same and the hall quiets some.

"Lady," I hear softly beside me, and I lift my eyes to find my lord offers me the wine.

There is naught to do but take and drink of it under my lord's watching. I hear my name called in a scattering about the hall as I drink and o'er the rim of the cup I catch a glance of raised cups and smiling faces until my eye lights upon my lord's kin. Somewhat of satisfaction and relief has settled upon Ranger Halbarad's features, and he offers me a slight nod ere he sips from his cup. I am not so shy of the wine and drain all that is left.

With that, Halbarad rises and signals the end of the meal. It is customary for the groom to lead the bride to the floor where he will partner her, but this is not asked of us. Instead, the men move the tables until my lord and I sit afore the hearth and around us rings the empty floor. The table all but disappears from afore us and the floor clears so swiftly the whirl of change leaves no room for comment. Surely all is as it should be.

By the time the company dances in a round about us, the wine has risen to my head, where it gives me little comfort. A muddle of music reaches my ears, a mix of viol, pipe, and drum and the beat of feet against the floor to set the rhythm. In a little, my head shall clear, but now I blink at the forms of my lord's guests as they slip past and seek mightily to keep my eyes open. The circle ceases its turning and couples break from it to whirl about. They wend their way against each other as so much weft laid down between the warp, but I lose the weaving for the swiftness of their feet. Only then do I cease my attempts to make sense of it.

They are merry. Let me be content to watch.

Under the influence of the wine, time passes swiftly, and I have nigh forgot my lord. By the time my mind is my own, a brisk tune moves their feet and the company swirls about us. Clapping of hands ring in time above the Ranger's heads and the dance involves much of pounding heels as the men circle the lady of their choice. It is a joyful dance and the hall is full of bright sound. The women beam and the grimness of the most weathered of our lord's Rangers falls from him.

Even Ranger Halbarad deigns to smile at the twinkling eyes of the delicate lass he has chosen. She seems to barely top his belt, but her cheek dimples with her suppressed smile and she stands no doubt as straight as her father's spear, though mayhap not near so tall. Then, there is a clear shout and the tune breaks into a wild whirl and the men grab their partners' hands to swing them laughing about the floor in great circles that threaten to collide one with the other in their recklessness.

When the dance ends, I am laughing with them and I turn to my lord. I wish to share my delight, but he stares straight ahead, his eyes fixed and distant. The dancing brings him no joy. It is then I notice the sweat that has sprung out upon his brow and his labored breath.

I lean to him. "My lord," I whisper beneath the sounds of music, dancing feet, and laughter, "what do you wish?"

He blinks as were he arising from the depths of dreams and shakes his head so slightly I wonder had I seen it.

Will my lord take no comfort? Is there naught I can do?

But I have not the time to discover it, should there be somewhat of help I could render, for I turn at a light touch upon my shoulder and find the women are waiting. They unwind the ribbon from about our hands, and, in a gentle crowd, lead me to the stairs. He gave me no farewell more than a slight nod, and in my last sight of my lord ere the women urge me up the steps, he speaks softly with Halbarad and stretches his fingers as had their binding been a sore trial.

~oOo~

Sitting on the edge of a stranger's bed, I await my husband.

"Husband."

I roll the word upon my tongue in the dark, where it tastes oddly. A draft runs along the slats of wood where my bare toes dangle and I shiver. A cold welcome it will be for the groom were the bride to sit much longer waiting in only the thin covering of her shift. It feels most of an hour since I was dismissed from the company, the men lingering to toast their married chieftain and, on this night, wish him much bliss.

And an heir, do not forget, an heir.

The voices of his Rangers have long since faded about the hearth. My hair unbound and skin bare but for a thin layer of finely adorned linen, I am as a field of warm earth beneath the spring sun. But where is the plough-master for the planting of his seed? Should he delay much longer, he might find his bride has fallen asleep ere joining her in his bed.

A thin pool of light pours into the solar from below and feet scuff faintly at the bottom of the stairs. My heart thuds into my ears, bringing my sour reflections to an abrupt end. His tread is labored and slow as he climbs the stairs, his entrance heralded by a flickering arc of light that throws the beams of the roof into fleeting relief.

At last he is come.

Light spills into the room, and I blink into the glare. A fine picture I must make, squinting into the light as I am, and, uneasy, I shift in my seat. Shadows play heavily upon my lord's face and I cannot read the expression writ there. Without so much as a word or look, he crosses to the foot of the bed. His steps weave across the floor and blood rises to my cheeks at the thought that my lord has need of wine to buttress his resolve to bed his wife.

I swallow and turn away at the thought of wine-sodden breath and clumsy hands, a heavy body that will not rise. But, at the trembling of light upon the wall, I catch my lord's grimace as he lowers the rushlight to the long chest at the foot of the bed. His breath is not that of a man enfeebled with too much wine, but one drunk with exhaustion and pain, where the cost of each rise and fall of the breast cannot be fully paid. He leans heavily upon the tall bedpost and the hand that seeks to unbind his belt shakes with the palsy of an old man.

"My lord!"

Ere I can consider what I am about, I am on my feet. When my hand covers his, his arm falls limp and heavy to his side, acquiescing to my touch as had he lacked the strength to resist. His eyes hidden in the curtain of his dark hair, he watches silently as I undo his belt and the ties of the formal tunic he wears. It is thick and velvet, pliable and warm with the heat of his body when I ease it off his shoulders, as were it the pelt of some gentle living creature. I turn away to fold the cloth and lay it upon the chest, and I am shaking. Here is a thing I had not expected, to lead our steps through this dance.

The shirt beneath is stiff with raw fibers of silk. It makes the soft rustling sound of falling leaves and the skin its removal reveals is little less smooth and warm than the velvet that had covered him. His breath runs across my cheek from where I am bent to him. I swallow and my cheeks heat furiously at the warmth and scent that rises from his bare breast as the cloth falls from his wrists and hangs from my hand. I cannot meet his eyes for fear of what he may read there. When he catches my hands and leads me to the bed, it is now I that am weak upon my legs like a newborn lamb.

But, when he cautiously sinks upon the mattress, clutching at me to ease his descent, he turns my hands in his to stare at my palms as were he looking to them to find aught hidden there. I had taken care not to brush his flesh with them, for they are cold from the wait. Then, laying his face into their cup, he sighs into my fingers as were their chill a relief. His beard is softer than I would have thought and heat spreads through my hands where he has captured them against his skin.

For a long moment we are thus, I standing afore him, and my lord and bridegroom slumped upon his bed, his hair brushing the edges of our hands. When he raises his face, his eyes are the startlingly blue of a cold, clear winter's day. His voice is deep and rich as he speaks his first private words to me.

"I kept you waiting, lady, but I beg you must wait a while longer."

I cannot tell whether the sinking in my gut is relief or regret. What does a bride say to such a kind refusal to claim the right of the groom?

"We have much time afore us, my lord," I finally say.

"That I hope."

I have naught to say to that.

In the dark I lie beside my lord's slumbering form, listening to the breath that sighs gently beside me and staring at the wooden canopy above our heads. In my mind I stand within the shadow of the entry into my father's house, watching the passage of the column of my lord's men mounted upon their shaggy-coated steeds. I look for my father among their company, but there I see, as were it for the first time, their chieftain's face ere he passes, and the flash of somewhat vital in his gaze.

It causes me to shiver, and I pull the blankets about my shoulders and turn upon my side, so I may curl into a ball without disturbing my lord. But it does little to warm me, for I have seen the weariness of my lord's body sink into the depth of his eyes and felt the fever burning beneath his skin. And I have seen the linen tightly bound about my lord's middle and, beneath its outer wrapping, it is dark with blood.

~oOo~


	7. Chapter 6

~ Chapter 6 ~

_'But I say to thee, Gandalf Mithrandir, I will not be thy tool! I am Steward of the House of Anárion. I will not step down to be the dotard chamberlain of an upstart. Even were his claim proved to me, still he comes but of the line of Isildur. I will not bow to such a one, last of a ragged house long bereft of lordship and dignity.'_

ROTK: The Battle of the Pelennor Fields

~oOo~

_~ TA 3007, 6th day of Gwirith: Pantry: 9 marks of oat flour, 7 of rye, 3 of wheat. __Near 2__ 1 and half wheels of aged cheese. 1 of soft. 2 casks ale. __8__ 6 skins wine. __3 __2 pads butter. 2 barrels of beans. 1 barrel lentils. 2 woven strings of onion, 3 heads of garlic. 2 marks dried apple. Scant mark dried apricot. __Shank of salted pork,__ 1 pork shoulder in brine. __3 loaves fresh bread.__ 1 barrel smoked fish. 1 barrel salt. Various spices. No greens, eggs, or fresh or dried herbs. No bread._

~oOo~

The morning awoke in mist.

The rains ceased as we slept and from the wet earth a veil of cloud arose to hang o'er the meadow and wreathe the distant march of the forest in a soft blue haze. Upon my looking out on the world from the window of my lord's solar, the sun hovers above the unseen hills as a ball of muted flame and the drystone walls stand as dark, silent sentinels upon the pasture. There grazed my lord's and his kin's steeds. A brief curiosity I was to them upon the sound of the shutters rattling down into their casement and they soon forgot me and lowered their heads to the sweet grasses.

With the rising of the sun, I left my lord to his sleep. He bare moved at my awakening, though the strangeness of the light that seeped in through the shutters and the sound of my lord's own breath startled me into sitting bolt upright in his bed. When I marveled at the depth of his sleep and put the back of my hand to his brow, my lord stirred, frowning in his dreams, and his arm came up to brush me aside. There was naught I could do but let him sleep and hope his rest would bring healing. And so it was I left his bed in this, the first rising of the sun upon our marriage, where I had thought he would require me to linger.

There were none to tutor me in the ways of the household of the Dúnadan, and so I was left to make of them what I could on my own. All about where I looked was now mine. Mine to tend the fields and make them bear fruit. Mine to set the beasts to pasture and comb the forests for what gifts they had to offer. Mine to stock the pantry with its barrels of beans, flours, and cheeses and the buttery with its hanging bundles of herbs, baskets, tools, tubs, and casks of ale. Mine the hearth to make warm the hall. And even here I knew not even the simplest of things. Where did my lord's men stack fuel for the fire?

The tall windows that reach to the rafters I leave alone, for they are shuttered tight and their latches are far beyond the reach of my fingers though I might stretch upon my toes. I look about, but I cannot find the pole that sure must be used for their unlocking. Yielding to my ignorance, in their stead I open the front door to my lord's home. With this, I startle the youth who paces the toft. He whirls about and stares at me with darkened eyes, his hand flying to the hilt of the long sword hanging from his hip. I cannot say whose face heated more, my lord's guard who had failed to account for an enemy approaching from the rear as he watched o'er our sleep, or my lord's wife, who had not thought to find her husband's household expanded by his Rangers.

He bows, his face solemn, and his fingers touch upon his brow. For a long moment, I know not what to do. The youth waits. I wait. Then it occurs to me he will not turn his back until released. I nod, and he goes, striding across the dew-dampened grass, his vigilance renewed. 'Twas as simple as that, but I sigh and turn back into the hall.

Valar save me, I know so little of what is expected of me that I shall, no doubt, have many such opportunities to make a fool of myself.

About the hall, much is changed from the night afore. It seems more than a few of my lord's men slept around the hearth, though they left little evidence of the night they spent there. Indeed, they took all but one of the long tables with them, carting them away to their owners when they awoke. Left behind, my lord's table stands along one wall and his chair sits behind it.

The scuff of my footsteps seems loud in this large space. Benches with little to comfort the body that may lie upon their wood stand stacked to the side. The wall spreads behind my lord's chair bare of any hangings. Not a single pot kept warm in the coals of the hearth overnight. And my fingers twitch for want of a broom to set the stone floor to rights. 'Tis a place of men, and those that come here stay but seldom. Where to start?

Flowers droop in their holders upon my lord's table, dropping withered petals upon the linen. It is to them I go first. There, on the table still adorned for the wedding feast and his men preparing for sleep about him, I find my lord had thrust the cups aside to make room to unroll maps upon its surface. They are finely drawn and, distracted, I trace the boundaries of Arnor lightly above the parchment; Cardolan, north to Arthedain, about the North Downs and then south into the familiar lands of Rhudaur until I reach the Angle where the rivers Hoarwell and Loudwater meet. These lands, I know well, bound by the Blue Mountains to the west and the Misty Mountains to the east.

Scattered there, I find smooth dark pebbles resting upon the map, lying upon homes of our foes of old and gathering places of fell creatures of the Shadow of the East; Dunland, Mirkwood, Angmar, and the Misty Mountains. A full handful of pebbles lie trapped in the arms of the Mountains of Shadow and Ash and obscures the name of that foul land. Above them all, a pile of black pebbles clusters at the top of the map, waiting, as had my lord gathered them there in anticipation of later need.

I sigh and turn away. Casting about, a book lying open draws my eyes, its pages filled with a cramped but neat hand. With guilty pleasure, I turn its pages with a delicate touch out of care for their precious parchment. I do not know what I think to find. Some small message of hope, perchance? A key to holding back the fell things that threaten the free peoples of Middle-earth? In its pages I find a journal of the ordering of Rangers of the North for the defense of our people; lists of supplies, the numbers of companies, cities abandoned, accounting of refugees, fallen men, and the movements of our foes. This is what occupied my bridegroom's time ere he came to his bed.

Ashamed now of my irritation at being left alone for so long on my wedding night, I turn to the front of the book, abandoning the later pages for what I hope is an accounting of the Watchful Peace. Instead, along the fly-leaf, I find a tree drawn in the brown strokes of ink that makes me pause. 'Tis the line of my lord's descent.

Turning the volume, I read the list of names, recognizing some and learning others anew. Toward its upper branches, the line continues along the next page. I turn it silently and run up the line, my finger hovering just above the parchment so as not to stain it with the oils of my skin. Arathorn I, lost untimely. Argonui, killed by wolves. Arador, captured by hill-trolls. Arathorn II, my lord's own father, slain by orcs when his infant son had not yet seen out his third year. Quickly calculating their ages from the dates given, I sink to the edge of my lord's chair.

So young were they, each of them, in the tale of the years of Westernesse; these lords of the Dúnedain, their lives foreshortened by the growing Shadow. Indeed, in these times, it seems by mere chance alone the man who I left sleeping above stairs yet lived. Tenacious of spirit, e'en now he clings to life despite the extremity of his hurts, and Valar know, should he live to regain his full strength it shall not be the last wound he takes in our defense.

A wave of pity clouds my eyes. I stare at the blank space below my lord's name for a long moment, lost in thought.

In my view from my lord's chair, the hall is cold and spare for all its lofty rafters and tall windows, so little of cheer and naught of comfort to be found within its walls. Not even an emblem of the Dúnedain of the North to mark my lord's place. The bare wall behind his seat seems a gross insult, a slap in the face.

Rising, I return the book to the page where my lord had it and leave it there. By dint of much lifting of lids and opening of doors at least I now know where to find the linens and crockery for my lord's table, a small library of books and scrolls carefully stacked in a tall chest, quills, ink and parchment, thread, needle, and worn shears. The kindling I find in a covered bin next to the buttery door. Somewhere out of doors, there must be a well or barrel to catch rainwater and I am sure to find buckets and a broom in the buttery.

I would have my lord's hall be truly a home, where he and his house shall find rest of body and mind, but it will be the work of many days. I gather the cups from the table and sweep up the dying flowers with my hands. But, first, ere my lord's hall can be made welcoming, it must at least be made presentable. It is time to begin.

~oOo~

The buttery is shuttered and dark, and unfamiliar. I push the basket of violet leaves onto the shelf blindly and pat about to find a small bucket or some such. In my wanderings about the grounds, I had come upon a grove of sweet birch and I wish to cull the smooth-barked tips of their branches to brew a tea to tempt my lord. I think he should awaken soon.

I hear a man's voice in the hall coming muffled through the door. Halting my search, I listen.

"Rohan has ever been an ally of the Men of the West," he says, but his voice is weary, and his words have the ring of a much-aired argument.

"Aye, of Gondor, 'tis true," comes the response in a voice I know not. "We will have much need of aid in the not distant future. But when have the Rohirrim ever ridden to our call?"

With haste, I pull at my ties, and yank the apron over my head and toss it in a ball to the shelf. _Ai!_ My lord is awake and has company! It is but my first day of marriage and already I am greatly remiss in my duties as woman of the house.

Taking a deep breath, I unwind the cloth from my head, smoothing back the wild strands ere I secure it about my hair, patting upon its folds to ensure all is in place. Their voices come through the door as they argue.

"It is said that they trade their horses to the Enemy."

"I do not believe it!"

When I open the door, it is with dismay I find so many men gathered about. The table has been cleared of its decorations to make room for them. They built up the fire in the midst of the hall and it crackles vigorously, dispelling any chill from the misty spring morn lingering indoors. The pot I hung there has been swung away, and the thin broth of lentils and salted pork it held keeping warm o'er the coals is now gone. Beyond the hearth, my lord sits in the midst of his men, his thoughts turned inward and his face grave, rolling a black pebble between his fingertips from where his arm rests upon the table.

'Tis the first I have seen of him in the light of day and I am struck by the darkness of the skin below his eyes and in the hollows of his cheeks. Halbarad sits on the bench by his kin's chair, so near his arm he brushes against him when he moves. Gathered about them are more than a dozen Rangers in heated argument. Grey-eyed, pale of skin, tall of frame, and dark of head are they, as were their forefathers of Westernesse.

As I approach, I see the map spread between them. From a glance, I see stones the color of cream dotting Eriador at the Angle and various points in the north. But it is in Rohan and Gondor where they are clustered most greatly, opposing the handfuls of dark stone in Mordor. And it is here the men debate, pointing at the map, their voices rising in competition with one another.

"Were Rohan to fall - " begins one.

"When Rohan falls, more like," interrupts another.

"Théoden is ill and frail and the governance of his House is divided among its Marshals."

"Aye, and a house divided it is!"

"It is said that Théodred is a strong leader of men."

"Ah! He is young and besides, his is the marshal of his own éored alone. Rohan has no King who can lead the Mark to war."

"What does it matter? The Enemy must go through Gondor to attack the Rohirrim, after all."

"Aye, Gondor remains strong, but should orcs be massing below the Misty Mountains, what numbers are there teeming behind the walls of the Ephel Duath?"

My lord rouses himself and overrides the confusion. He clenches the stone tightly in his fist.

"Our more immediate threat, gentlemen, comes from the north and the east. Mordor may indeed be amassing its armies, but it will signify little to us should we be overrun long ere the first orc sets foot on the plains about the White City. Do we have the might to stem the tide of Mordor? No? Then let us concern ourselves with what aught be done here and now."

I freeze at the sternness of his voice. Mayhap I should not be here, a woman interrupting the councils of men.

I must have made some small noise in the silence that fell at my lord's rebuke, for his eyes are now raised to mine. They are cold and grey, full of the severity of a man in the midst of sustaining hope solely by an act of will. The crack and hiss of burning sap comes from the fire behind me and I can feel its heat on the back of my skirts. I drop my gaze only to step back and stare anew, startled by the shuffling of feet, scraping of wood upon the floor, and the rising of his men from their seats. Their eyes, too, are upon me, with a solemn attention that surprises me.

I drop a short reverence to my lord. He rests his head against the back of his seat.

"Lady," he acknowledges. "Gentlemen," he says to the men, looking about him as were he newly aware that they had risen, "be seated," and they comply without comment, leaving me to stand alone in the silence.

Already, cups, bowls, a pitcher and wine skins are scattered about the table among heels of bread and a great wheel of cheese. But, natheless, having come so far, I must proceed.

"My lord," say I, "have your needs and those of your guests been attended to?"

"Our needs are simple enough, lady," he says, gesturing an upturned hand at the table, the pebble a dark shadow between his forefinger and thumb.

When I bow my head in preparation to flee their company, his gaze softens.

"Lady!" he calls as I turn to go, his eye having alighted upon the pitcher. "Should it please you, would you draw more ale?" He adds, pinning his men with a rueful glare and tossing the stone to its mates where it clinks against them, "It seems we run dry and I would not have our guests' debate foreshortened for the want of somewhat to wet their tongues."

The resulting chuckles do much to allay the tension in the room. Halbarad does not smile with them but reaches across his tablemate to lift the pitcher. Catching my eye, his nod invites me over to take it from him. My lord's men return to their conversation, but in smaller groups and with much lowered tones.

Once at the table, Halbarad hands me the pitcher. I am surprised to find it nigh half full with a sweet-smelling ale. Very kind of my lord it was, I think, to sanction my interruption with his request. Now I am here, and welcomed, his men meet my eye with a nod of greeting. I find myself wondering how many of these Rangers have wives or mothers at home to care for them between their wanderings. I return their acknowledgement with as warm of a smile as I can muster and begin to fill their cups as they are offered.

I lean o'er the table at my lord's side and his voice sounds close to my ear as I pour.

"And you, lady, have your needs been attended to?"

"My needs are simple enough, my lord," I say and return the cup to its owner.

When I look to my lord, he is watching me, seeming in attempt to divine why he hears his own words returned to him. I do not like his color, or the sweat that lies in a film upon his upper lip, hidden from all but close examination by the growth of beard.

"Your people have been most generous in refitting the house, my lord." I nod to a Ranger with silvered hair and sharp features who nods gravely at me when I take his cup and fill it for him. "I believe your lady mother was happy here, for a time, here where her memories were," I venture.

"Aye," he says, and his gaze falls from me. "Mayhap she was, for a time."

Slowly, he eases his shoulders back onto his chair, wincing briefly at the strain. Without raising my head, I glance at the men, but they talk amongst themselves, pouring more wine and drinking it from their cups. When I return my attention to my lord, he has raised his cup to his lips, his movements slow. He manages a sip, but in his attempt to set the tumbler to the table, the light trembles in a bright coin upon the liquid surface and he falters.

Of its own accord, my hand darts toward his, lifting the cup from his grasp. His eyes burn into mine, but his fingers are cold, and, when he releases the weight of the cup, his hand shakes. Dropping his gaze, I fill his cup from the pitcher as had this been my intent all along.

Enough!

'Tis clear from the defiant fire in my lord's eyes he will not take the rest he needs of his own accord or from any prompting of mine. Let him have his pride. But that does not imply that all means of recourse are beyond my grasp.

I set his cup within his reach and turn to the man who shadows his left hand.

"Sir," I say and Halbarad is immediately attentive. "Might I beg your assistance?"

"In what way may I be useful, my lady?"

"Would you be so kind as to help me in clearing the table?"

He nods slowly and rises. I have emptied the pitcher and, bowing to my lord, take my leave through the buttery door. But I do not go beyond it into the pantry. Wood clatters in the hall as Halbarad gathers the bowls no longer in use. He wedges the door open with his toe and ducks his head to step within.

Halbarad blinks and frowns, squinting at me in surprise when he finds me waiting for him.

I relieve him of the stack of bowls. "My lord tires," I say, my eyes upon the floor and my voice soft.

Halbarad stares at me a brief moment ere turning abruptly on his heel. In the dark, his footsteps make short work of striding through the buttery and I hear his pull on the door into the hall ere its swift opening spills light into the small space.

"Come!" he commands in a voice that brooks no opposition. In my mind I can see the tall man looming o'er the seated figures of my lord's Rangers as he circles the table, picking up cloaks and packs and tossing them at their owners. "Enough, I say. You have had your feast. You have had your dancing. And you have had your say afore your chieftain. Lathril, get you up and take Haldren with you! Melethron, put down that wine! Enough. We have stolen much of the bride's day with our wearisome debates. We shall meet again upon the morrow to assign duties. Let us not be selfish, eh? Go enjoy your families and let her have her groom to herself for the rest of it."

There is laughter and light-hearted comments in response, but also the scraping of benches.

I fuss with the tableware as they leave, lifting lids and shifting baskets until I have found the waste bucket. Their voices are warm in their farewells. I cannot tell their words as I scrape the contents of bowls to cover the sounds of leave-taking. When I can hear their murmur no longer, I wipe my hands and feel my way through the shadows of the buttery.

My lord remains seated at his table, solemnly considering the map stretched afore him. He is alone.

In the silence, my footsteps and the soft crack of the door banging against its frame sound loud. When it becomes obvious I have returned without having drawn ale for his guests, my lord's brow rises.

"It seems you have won yourself a powerful ally in my kin already, lady," he says as I approach.

I pull the bit of cloth tight across the open page and close the book gently upon it. I know my face betrays little expression, for I am not sure how I am to feel, so torn am I between fear for my lord's welfare, and uncertainty as to how he shall take my interference.

"I expect he knows well your needs and keeps them close to his heart, my lord," I say, brushing a hand along the table to gather up the loose pebbles. They clink against each other as I drop them into a leather pouch. Pulling on the cord, I lay them atop the closed book.

"What say you to bed, my lord?"

He sighs in what seems to be resignation and then breaks into a small wry laugh. "That I am not sure I can manage the stairs."

I bite at my lip, considering. Indeed, mayhap I encouraged Halbarad to leave a little too soon. I am not frail, but I cannot lift a full-grown man up a flight of stairs, much less one of my lord's build.

"Lady," my lord says, interrupting my thoughts, and nodding toward the hearth in the middle of the hall, "should you help me move to that bench, that will suffice."

It can be naught but a hard bed, I think. Though, I suppose my lord has slept upon worse.

"Come, should you give me your hand to lead me there, I will consider your duty done," he says to my skeptical examination of the wooden bench and extends his hand for mine.

'Tis an awkward affair, to lift the weight of a grown man when every stretch of sinew brings pain, but we manage. His steps are shallow as we cross the room. He clings tightly to my shoulders to lower himself to the bench. By the time he is stretched along its surface, his brows are drawn, he is pale and sweating, and I am angry.

Whose bidding was it that prompted my lord to rise far too early from his sickbed to attend upon his wedding? Had they pushed him to bed a woman when he could bare rise from his table, hoping he would father an heir in the night against the fear he may die ere the morning? And then spend his next days in tedious council making a show of strength when he happens to survive?

My shame gentles my hands when I kneel and lift his ankles to ease off his boots. I lay them beneath the bench and prepare to rise, but my lord grasps my hand. I sit against my heels, my skirt pooling about my feet, until we are eye to eye.

"Have you found all to your liking, lady?"

"Aye, my lord. The house holds much promise."

At that, my lord smiles. "And no doubt you will keep me busy with many plans for its improvement."

"Nay, my lord – " I begin in alarm, but he forestalls my apology with a quick pressing of my fingers.

"Order it as you see fit, lady. I will see it done." At the doubt in my eyes, he continues, "Should it not be done by myself, then by another."

"My thanks to you, my lord."

His hands loosen in dismissal, but I have a question I would ask ere I go.

"My lord," say I, mindful of his Rangers' words. "Is there somewhat of hope to which we may cling, do you think?"

It does not take much thought to know my meaning, but still he delays, his gaze distant as he frames his response.

"Surely the Enemy is not strong on all points, my lord. Is there no weakness, no arrogance of his we can exploit?" I press for an answer and he is suddenly alert and sharply in the present, searching my face with his keen eyes.

"Aye, lady, but it is not within our reach. No matter, there is always hope, though it may not come to fruit in our life, and to that we must cling," he says and withdraws his hands from mine.

The lines of his face have become drawn in grim determination, but I can see a profound grief shadowing the depths of his eyes, a wound as fresh as that he bears upon his flesh. It is not just the women of the Dúnedain who must suffer through their losses.

I nod, acquiescing to his implicit command to press him no further. I rise and make for the parlor, where, once there, I rip coverings off baskets and upend their contents until I find what I seek.

It must have taken longer than I thought, for, when I return, my lord is already drowsing, his hand hanging limply o'er the edge of the bench, and I must walk softly to not disturb his sleep.

Clutching the blanket and small pillow to my chest, I sink to the floor beside him and study his face. He goes unshaven and his jaw looks as should it feel rough, though I know better. The skin about his eyes is wind-burnt and creases show light against it where he has squinted into the harsh sunlit world. But his lashes now rest softly upon his cheeks and his breast rises and falls with a gentle regularity.

There is always hope, he said. Mayhap there is. But his maps with their ranks of dark and light markers put a lie to his words. One man pitted against such merciless odds. Should he fail, what then? Will we fall into an everlasting darkness? Or will the heirs of his body sustain men against a time when the free peoples of Middle-earth rise again in some distant age?

But then, what hope is there for this man, this son of Arathorn, our lord of the Dúnedain, my lord?

His eyelids flutter when I lay the blanket over his limbs and lift his arm to rest against their folds atop his breast, but he rouses little. Thus encouraged, I cradle the back of his head and swiftly slip the pillow beneath it. He sighs and shifts, but, by then, I have turned away and poke at the wood in the fire, settling the logs so I can add more fuel without causing them to fall and send sparks into the room. Entranced by the glowing coals and the quiet of the hall, I had nigh forgot the man behind me when I feel the brush of fingertips along my cheek, pulling gently at the lock of hair that had slipped out from beneath my scarf in my search through the parlor.

I do not see myself reflected in eyes that are clouded with dreams. His hand drops back to his breast and his eyes close ere the gesture is half complete.

"Tinúviel," my lord breaths and then, exhaling softly, falls still.

~oOo~


	8. Chapter 7

~ Chapter 7 ~

_In any case, I did not intend to tell you all about myself at once. I had to study you first, and make sure of you. The Enemy has set traps for me afore now. As soon as I had made up my mind, I was ready to tell you whatever you asked._

FOTR: Strider

~oOo~

_~ TA 3007, 27th day of __Gwirith_ _Víressë: 1 mark sausage, 1 handful dried apple, 1 onion, butter, wine, cinnamon, nutmeg, sugar, salt. All boiled and ground. Make pastry dough of prepared flour, kneaded with yolks of eggs. Pat pastry to thin rounds. Seal well. Set in hot grease upright._

~oOo~

I lower the shutters and fresh-washed blue streams into the solar. It rained the night afore, in gentle mists that lulled me to sleep, and the day dawned bright and mild. From the window, I stand tall above the meadow and can see far atop the forest. Faint are the distant glimmers of water beneath its canopy. Tender green ghosts the bare limbs of the trees and the river Tithecelon runs deep and swollen. Come summer, the river shall shrink within its bed, the forest shall deepen its green cloak and I shall be unable to catch the sun's play upon the water.

At the sound of a slow sigh, I set the shutter's tie upon its hook and place my back to the meadow to find my lord turning upon his side. He yet sleeps.

After some negotiation, my lord and I have come to an understanding. He will stay abed until after the midday meal should I promise to assist him down the stairs come the afternoon. Slow we creep riser to riser, he clinging to my shoulder and I to his side until he may sit at his table and satisfy the disquiet of his mind.

In our first few days of marriage, we had no need of such arrangements. Between wedding of the night afore and council of the day after, my lord exhausted himself past the limits of both body and spirit, and undid many days of healing. He did not appear below stairs nor hold audience for days on end. Let the folk of the Angle smile and talk fondly of the pleasures of the newly wedded, the eagerness of his wife, and the great stamina of their lord, I knew he slept.

But then, when the fifth day dawned, I came upon my lord at the head of the stairs. He clutched the wall and attempted to lower his body down the risers. One look at the grey sheen that clung to a face made grim with pain and I dropped the basket of bedding I carried and raced up the stairs.

_"Baw! Daro!_" I cried as I ran, to both his wonderment and mine.

Too alarmed and frightened to either know or care what I did, I glowered at him and refused to move. He had not the strength to both descend the stairs and push me aside and so he called to one who might assist him.

"Halbarad!" he commanded, and a scrape of wood answered from the hall.

At that, I picked up my skirts and pounded back down the stairs, nearly slipping on the spilled linens in my reckless flight, coming to a halt only at the dark shadow that filled the doorway.

"No!" I cried and flung a hand up in warning.

I do not know what Halbarad saw in my face, but he settled upon his heels and, after a brief moment of considering me and the slumped figure beyond my shoulder, called up the stairs, "My lord, it seems I am turned away by your soft-spoken and biddable wife."

"Halbarad!" my lord called. When no answer was forthcoming, I heard a deep sigh from the solar.

"Lady."

I did not know what would await me at the top of the stairs but return there I must. It was with surprise I saw my lord lift his hand for mine. When we touched, I knew his limbs trembled with effort and threatened to collapse beneath him. Together we lowered his body and sat upon the stairs.

I know many men who become loud in their anger, their voices rising and their words sputtering forth from their reddened faces. My lord is not such a man as this. His anger comes upon him coldly.

"Lady," said he, his voice a bare whisper for all its sternness. "I do not require your hindrance."

"My lord, I beg you, do not think me unkind, nor obstinate, but there is no charge so urgent that cannot wait until you are healed."

"You seek to lecture me on the nature of duty?"

In this, his voice was sharp, and I was glad of the shadows, for my face grew hot. Indeed, he had read me aright. And, indeed, who was I to stand in judgment upon him?

"No, my lord, I would not presume so." My voice seemed small and I could not meet his keen gaze. "But, as one who is dependent upon you, my lord, can you not see what it would mean should you needlessly fail of your cure?"

At that, he fell silent, gazing upon me solemnly for some time. "Very well," he said at last and a small smile twitched at his lips. "It seems I am your prisoner. Take me to my bed."

I was then at his beck and call, upon his insistence that were I to restrict him to his bed and only briefly allow him to his table, then I needs must be his feet. And so I was, though not unwillingly. 'Twas not a heavy burden. Most oft, he spoke with Halbarad, who had ever been his hands and eyes in the Angle. When Halbarad was abroad, seeing to his kin's will, my lord read through the books that lined the tall chest in the hall and made notes in his journals. And when he became too restless and this would not hold his mind, I loaded the table with uncut quills, the ingredients for iron gall ink, his gear and weapons, his clothes, washed and brushed but in great need of mending, and the tools with which to accomplish all these tasks and left him to it. I had enough to do with the ordering of the house and grounds that I did not keep him company.

In truth, he needed little of my attention and demanded little effort from me. For, though he tired of his sickbed, his own weakness and frequent want of good food and a safe bed were my best allies. Those times I saw him outworn and so took the quill from his hand, stoppered the inkhorn, and laid aside whatever task he had set himself, my lord did not complain. He was content to eat the simple broths and pottages I cooked him, drink naught stronger than the well-water I poured him, and sleep when I put him to bed.

In my turn, I found, for all they had disturbed my rest in those first nights, his breathing and the weight of his body shifting upon the mattress soon came to usher me to my sleep and I awake only when he had been too still or too quiet for too long. Then, I lay silent in the dark and listen, and only close my eyes upon the rustling of sheets or soft sigh.

With a quick intake of breath, my lord scowls and stirs as I watch from the solar window. He will soon awaken, but I do not hasten his climb from sleep, puzzling as I am o'er this man.

For my attentions, my lord sees to it I want for neither occupation, nor shelter, nor a soft place to rest my head. Ever, in their giving, he treats me with a kind and deliberate courtesy. I have no complaint. But not since he named me for the _Daughter of the Twilight_ have I seen aught of desire or longing kindle in his eyes.

"Do you wish me to lift the shutters closed, my lord?" I say when his eyes open and he squints into the light.

"No."

Taking a short, cautious breath, he stretches his limbs. His look is puzzled at the scent on the air as he pushes himself to sitting, his back leaning against the wall.

"Did it rain in the night?"

"Aye, my lord," I say and turn to the long, flat chest at the foot of the bed. There, I have laid a board of pottage of beans, the earliest of greens and barley, meat pastries, and a thick, dark bread. "Do you hunger?"

"Aye!"

Behind my back, he has arranged the pillows to his liking and tucked the sheets about his waist without needing to ask why I have entered the solar to disturb his rest. I turn my head against my shoulder to hide my smile as I cut into the bread. I think, mayhap, my lord is becoming overly accustomed to being served his meals abed.

When I rise, I find my lord looking upon the columbine at his bedside table, occupying himself with the trembling of their petals while he waits.

"When did you bring these?" He touches the flowers with a light finger. His brow furrows.

"Yestereve," I say, taking up the tray. "I thought you might enjoy them, my lord."

"Indeed? I had not known it was yet the time of their blooming," says he. "How long have I slept?"

He leaves off his examination of the flowers to lift the board from my hands and rest it upon his knees.

"Since ere the evening meal last night and it is now well into midday."

He takes the spoon from me and shakes his head, taking first to the pottage. "I have lost track of the days."

I am not surprised. He sleeps oft and for long hours. No doubt one day blends into the other. Pain, I yet see in the spasm that comes upon his face and body with incautious movement. But his voice is strong, his color is good, and he eats with more zeal than I had yet seen in him. In truth, he attacks the pottage and bread with large bites as had he not eaten in many days. Though it seems he is careful to take tender bites of the pastries and suck in cooling breaths of air, as they are newly removed from the grease in which they fried, and steam rises from the ground meats within.

I lay my wrist upon his brow and he halts in his eating to stare at me, his spoon hovering between bowl and lips. His eyes are bright as they gaze on me, but, for the first, he is neither overly warm nor cold.

"And how do I seem to you, lady?" he asks when I remove my hand. Though his eyes shine softly, his voice carries a hint of challenge. "Do I seem well enough?"

"Aye, my lord," say I and leave his side to pour him his drink. I did not bring water up the stairs for fear of spilling it and so now fill his cup from the pitcher on his bedside table.

"What then says my gentle _gaoler_?" he asks, watching me, a smile faint upon his lips. "Shall I be allowed to wander about within the daylight? Keep hours below stairs of my own making?"

For all his humor, I have lost my compliant patient and know well he will no longer tolerate any attempt on my part to confine him.

"As it please you, my lord," I say and hand him his cup, my eyes downcast as is proper. He takes it from me, a most curious look upon his face.

I am about to leave when his touch startles me. He has grasped my wrist and frowns up at me, forcing me to return his gaze.

"It would please me to know more your mind, lady. Come," he says, "will you not sit with me?"

An invitation, it seems, more than command, for his touch is deliberately soft and I could draw away should I so wish.

He smiles gently when I hesitate. "You have kept all others away. Would you deny me all company?"

"No, my lord."

And so, I sit myself upon the foot of my lord's bed. My hands lie in my lap, at rest as they have not been since I came to the house of the Dúnadan. Here we are at leisure, my husband and I, and yet, he does not speak. He has returned to his meal and looks upon me with a brief, measuring glance between bites. I am left with naught to do but watch.

No longer burdened so heavily by pain and weariness, a light shines in my lord's grey eyes, and his features, given life by his thoughts, look the less grim. Let the other women of the Angle talk of the comeliness of my lord's make. To me he was beyond my reach as those of the Elder-born.

With these matters are my thoughts occupied when his voice startles me.

"You have what you need for the house, lady?" he asks, and I am only now aware that I clutch my hands tightly.

"Aye, my lord."

He nods and stirs the pottage. "I see you have found room for your things."

"Aye, my lord," I say, thinking of the loom that now leans against a wall in my lord's hall. The tools of a woman's work are most oft placed in parlors, away from the halls of men. But the ceiling of all other rooms in my lord's home could not accommodate the loom's height, and I had the ordering of his house with little chance of consulting him.

"I can remove the weaving."

"No." He glances up at me as it were in surprise. "Leave it where it is, should that be where you wish it."

I nod and then return my gaze to my hands, aware that my lord studies me between bites.

"We have not yet spoken of the grounds. What think you?"

I shift uncomfortably. "The water of the well is sweet," I say, alighting upon somewhat, at least, to say. The midden and pasture lay downhill from the one source of drinking water upon the land, and the well should, with luck, remain fresh.

"Aye," says he. He must read my face for his next words reflect my own thoughts. "But other than that, the grounds need work, do they not?"

"Aye, my lord."

He nods, breaking off a piece of bread and wiping at the bowls. "Then I shall see to it," he says, and a sudden smile warms his face when he adds, "should I be allowed out of doors."

"I think, my lord, you do not need my permission."

"Good," he says. "I had hoped not to be forced to remove you from the door should I take it in my head to step across its threshold."

I smile in return, for my lord seems to require it, but my mirth is weak, and my hand comes up to play with the hairs that spring from out the winding of my scarf.

My lord has finished his meal. His spoon lies within an empty bowl, naught but crumbs remain of the bread and pastries, and he has drained his cup. Still he sits with the board settled upon his knees and I wonder what else he may require of me.

"Have you aught other need?" my lord says and, at first, I shake my head but then halt. I bite at the inside of my lip.

"What is it?"

"My lord," I say, "what am I to do with your mother's things?"

He frowns as had it not occurred to him that they be in question.

"You are the lady of the house, they are yours to do with as you see fit," he says and then shrugs. "Should there be tools, you may use them, should there be candles, you may light them, should there be clothes, you may wear them."

My doubt must have played upon my face, for my lord goes on, "Lady, my mother was a fair woman, and I am sure, had fine things that were the gifts of Master Elrond and those of his house, but she was also of a practical bent. She would be ill pleased were her things idle and there were need."

"Aye, my lord."

A silence settles upon us in which my lord's gaze is upon me, but he does not speak. I know not what knotty problem he seeks to unravel, but sure it is I have failed in some way, for he frowns and makes no move. The moments pass until I can take it no longer.

"Should you be finished, my lord," I say, rising, "I shall take your tray and then return when you are ready to come downstairs."

"No." He raises a hand to stop me, and I falter, caught in the act of reaching for the remains of his meal.

"My lord?"

"No," he insists gently and then sighs.

He lifts the board from off his knees and sets it upon the bed beside him. I wince at the strain I know he puts upon barely healed flesh as he twists aside but ball my hands into fists so I do not reach for his burden to relieve him of it.

"Pray sit." He motions to the bed afore him.

I settle stiffly to the mattress below my lord's feet. His face is grave as he studies me.

"You have no family in the Angle?"

"No, my lord."

At this, he sets his elbows upon his knees and draws a finger idly upon the linen, releasing a long, quiet breath as he does so. I know not what my lord ponders that so unsettles his mind. Did not his own mother live in this very house alone, with no family to give her company?

"Lady," he says, and I leave off considering the line where his finger passes, "when Halbarad spoke to you in my name, what did he say I required of you?"

Swiftly, I look away. I know the answer, but the words refuse to form themselves upon my lips. It seems I have no more skill in repeating his kin's demands than Halbarad did when he spoke them to me. But then a hand comes to lift my chin, and I find my lord staring at me intently.

"I confess I know little of the state of marriage, but I know this: I do not wish for a servant," he says, "no matter how willing. It was not for this I asked you to set aside all home and kin. You are the lady of the Dúnedain, all within these walls and the lands about them are yours to do with as you see fit."

He releases me and, I think, hopes I will not again hide from his eyes. I do not, for there is a measure of regret in his gaze and I marvel at what placed it there.

"What say you, lady? Shall we begin anew?"

I suppose I should be heartened by my lord's words. But I am not, for in my days as his wife, he has not asked more of me than to see to his house and run his errands. Other than bringing him food, he will not let me tend to his person, but cares for his own hurts when I am not about and keeps his own counsel when I am. Were I not to serve him, it will leave little to bring me within his company. But I must give him answer, for my lord waits, and as the moments pass the sorrow in his eyes deepens.

"Aye, my lord," I say, and he nods solemnly, taking me at my word. I know not to what I have just agreed.

"What say we start the day, then?"

I would have laughed and teased any other who had lain abed for the morning and then had the temerity to speak so. Instead, I say naught.

My silence did little good, for my lord, whose eyes have not strayed from examining my face, says wryly, "Mayhap you will allow me to catch up to you."

I rise and, looking down upon him, say, "Aye, my lord, and should you be so kind as to hand me the board, I shall take it while you dress."

He considers this. "I may assure you, lady, I have the strength and would not wish you to do for me what I can do for myself."

"Nay, my lord," I say, interrupting him ere he can go any further, "my fear is that, given your recent lack of practice in bearing such burdens, you shall tip the bowls upon the stairs. And should all things within these walls be mine to ordain, I have no wish to clean the mess."

A smile comes upon my lord's face of a sudden. He bows his head, conceding the point, and offers me the tray with his empty bowls. "Very well, but I expect to be granted permission to make my own way downstairs for my supper."

"Aye, my lord," I say, taking it from him.

With that, I leave. Had I turned back, I would have known the look that followed me as I made my way from the solar was gently amused.

~oOo~


	9. Chapter 8

~ Chapter 8 ~

_Above her brow her head was covered with a cap of silver lace netted with small gems, glittering white; but her soft grey raiment had no ornament save a girdle of leaves wrought in silver._

FOTR: Many Meetings

~oOo~

_~ TA 3007 27th day of Víressë, Charges: 6 marks wheat flour, 4 marks rye, 6 marks barley, 3 strings onion, 2 bundles fiddlehead greens, 1 bundle garlic scapes, 1 handful parsley, 5 wheels hard cheese, 3 barrels beans, 2 barrels smoked fish, shoulder of salted pork, fresh lamb, 2 strings sausage, 10 eggs. Discharges: as accounted by Mistress Pelara._

~oOo~

The parlor is a fright. I have left it to the very last of the list of the many things which must be done within the house. Between its walls lies a rat's nest of those possessions I have brought from my father's house and my lord's mother's things which she brought from the house of Master Elrond. My lord has few possessions of his own, and those are already either in use or stored in the tall chest behind his table. In my haste, I have left baskets uncovered and piles of cloth, and tools, and rags, and wool roving, and blankets scattered all about as I searched for what was most urgent in the moment, and then shut the door upon it all, for I have precious little time.

Where once I was of a small household kept by two sets of hands, now I must tend my lord's hall, his parlor, his pantry, his buttery, and the solar upstairs alone, and feed not just the occasional three, but my lord, Halbarad, myself, and many of the men who attend upon them. They sleep about the hearth at night and, true it is, I welcome their company. But a Ranger at home, they say, is deaf and dumb to all but the demands of his belly, and I am hard pressed to keep his men's stomachs full.

And not just the food, but I am buried in laundry. Sheets and blankets and towels and rags pile with my own second-best shift and dresses. Now even my best shift has begun to stink, and I must wonder at the state of my lord's garments and should he have a second set to wear should I wish to wash the first. And this does not even begin to account for the work that awaits out of doors! _Ai!_ And I must go to market soon, for we have no greens, little flour, and I am down to the very last of the onions that once hung from a long braid in the pantry.

Aye, I may be the lady of the Dúnedain in name, but I cannot see how it is possible for me to do aught else but the barest upkeep of the house.

And so, here I stand upon what little of the parlor floor is unoccupied, and turn about, looking at it all and wishing mightily that the magic of the Elves were mine and it had aught to do with forcing order upon this chaos. I wonder what my lord would say should I press a few of his men's strong backs into service. Now my lord heals, is he oft away from home for part of the day. Mayhap should I bribe his men with my aunt's sausage-stuffed pastries while he is away, they might be convinced not to reveal it to him.

I sigh and brush dust off my apron by dint of shaking it. Best to start now, for more delay will bring my tasks no more closer to completion. Ah, where to begin?

It is an hour or more that I dig through the bags and baskets, and I have sorted much of what came from my father's house and now pore over things left behind by my lord's mother. Linens and blankets in one pile, the tools of their making in another, roving pushed aside, soap and candles and needles and thread in baskets along the wall. I have found a small silver bell with a broad handle in my search through my lord's mother's things and, holding it up to my ear and giving it a shake, I marvel at it. I had not seen such a thing and its sound is of the high, hard leaves of the plum tree made merry by the sunshine. It brings a smile to my face when I find that cupping my hand about it gives the sound of bubbles beneath deep waters. With a sigh, I set it down amidst other things of which I have no great understanding and little immediate use, and now face a deep chest filled with lush colors and textures of which I have only dreamed.

The fibers catch on my poorly trimmed nails and I marvel how my lord's mother managed her house and yet was able to remain fit to wear such fine things. I drape the clothes across baskets and chests the better to see them and the colors glow in the soft light and smell of cedar and lavender. They are truly beautiful, more fair than any work I have e'er seen afore.

What need had I that my lord's lady mother could fulfill? A place among her people already established? A better understanding of her son's thoughts? No? I lift a long dress and I laugh. Her height of figure, mayhap, then. I cannot think how to take shears to such delicate work, but I can hardly see myself in them. I shall need fine linens for my lord's table, clothes for a child's naming and gifts for those who visit the Angle and those who serve it. But mayhap I shall keep at least one dress, no, two, no- ah, very well, three, then- for such occasions as my lord may require. We shall see should I be able to avoid mangling them in their altering.

"My lady," I hear from the door and find Halbarad stooping below the lintel, leaning into the room with one hand upon the frame. He looks for all as were he afraid to enter too far and be pulled into the abyss. I cannot find it in my heart to blame him.

"Our lord bids you attend him," he says and waits until I set aside the dresses to disappear into the hall.

I can only wonder what my lord may wish. We have spoken little since he now orders his own coming and going. Our meals are quiet, with little speech but for that between my lord and his kin or his men. Aye, we sleep together in a wide bed, but without much exchange of words and none but accidental touch in the midst of our slumbers. Still, I follow and find my lord at his table, where he has tossed a leather pack and now unbuckles his belt. It seems he is just returned home.

"You called, my lord? I am come," I say from the door to the parlor and he glances my way.

"Ah, lady." He draws his belt and sword from around his waist and tosses the lot to Halbarad without a word ere striding about the end of the table.

His kin wraps the belt about my lord's scabbard and raises it to its place upon the wall while my lord swiftly unbinds the clasp upon the pack on the table.

"Come!" my lord says, urging me forward when I stand watching them, bemused by the ease with which it seems the other knows his thoughts.

My lord sits upon his chair, drawing the pack toward him as he opens it. He looks up and frowns to find me across the table from him, where I stand with my hands clasped afore me, gazing at him expectantly.

"Nay, lady, come sit with me," he says and, to my puzzlement, nods to the bench beside him.

I lift my skirts to ease to the bench and settle to its edge as my lord pulls letters, hinged wax tablets, and a sheaf of loosely bound parchment from his pack. Halbarad hangs his pack upon a peg by the door as I sit and now joins us and sets to collecting the letters and organizing them into piles. No doubt they are missives collected from the far-flung corners of my lord's lands. He and his kinsman will spend the rest of the day and much of the even poring over them and debating their course.

My lord draws the bound journal to him. By its worn edges and darkening of the leather I can see it is old and much used.

"Lady," he says, "here you find the records of this house and its lands. Elder Maurus' daughter had them in her care after my mother's passing, but I entrust them now to you."

Here he unties the leather thong holding the journal closed and opens it. I peer o'er his shoulder at the tight, neat hand of rows and columns of figures upon the loose sheaves. He turns the pages swiftly until reaching the end.

I am frowning at the page when my lord slides it afore me. It seems I look at tithes gathered and the goods produced upon my lord's lands, the last of these pitifully few in these last years. The gathering of tithes seems to have been put in abeyance but for my lord's Ranger's needs after my lord's mother's death and only recently renewed. My lord watches my face as slowly I turn the page. I peer more closely at the figures, at a loss. The last entry is dated a month prior. Why is that?

"You are lettered, lady, are you not?"

I look up from the figures to find my lord's gaze remains upon me. I had thought his attention elsewhere. It was gently asked, but still the question stings. For that is not the source of my misgivings and it rankles he might think so poorly of me. Attempt as I might to hide my vexation, I think I am not as successful as I might wish, for his eyes search my face.

"Aye, my lord," I say, returning his gaze steadily.

"Of course," he says softly and then falls silent as I turn the pages over, puzzling o'er the contents and their meaning.

Indeed, I can read the ledger well, and by this know the amount of work that went into it. Wherever shall I find the time?

"When is Melethron due?" my lord asks and spins a letter to better see the hand upon it as he waits, and Halbarad answers without looking up.

"Midafternoon."

"My lord?"

He turns to me. His eyes may be on me, but, for the distant look in my lord's eyes, I think his mind is elsewhere.

"Are these the most recent?" I lift the last of the pages.

"Aye," he says and then, seeming to recall himself, shakes his head, "No, Mistress Pelara keeps the records of this house for you and will give you the pages as they are complete."

"My lord," I say, my words coming haltingly for my confusion, "with what, then, do I trade for goods at the market?"

"You do not need do the trading. It will be done for you, lady. Should you have need, send word to Elder Maurus' house and it will be met."

He turns, and, with that, I am dismissed and nigh forgot, for Halbarad has opened the letters and, gaining my lord's eye, points out a line upon one of them. My lord scowls and, reading it, lets loose a sigh and rubs at his beard.

"Aye, aye," he repeats softly. "Are there more such?"

I shuffle the pages into shape and tie the leather binder as they speak. I do not know where to keep it safe, but I think I shall leave that question for another time. In the meantime, I wish to have quiet to examine the ledgers more closely. My aunt kept what little accounting there was in my father's house but taught us the way of it, my sister so that she would know how to keep her own house, and I, when it was time, I should know how. I fear my skills will fall greatly short of the task set for me and I shall need much time ere I have mastered it.

My lord and Halbarad's voices are soft behind me and my heart is uneasy as I leave. True, their speech is of settlements threatened and the movements of the creatures of the Shadow, but the thoughts that weigh heavily upon me tend more to what burden is mine to carry. It is not until I reach the hearth that I have convinced myself of the rightness of them.

"My lord," I say and turn about ere I lose my nerve. _Ai!_ I shall regret this. Already the hours of the day fall short of all the work I must complete.

Their voices fall silent and my lord looks upon me, his brow raised.

"What is it, lady?"

"My lord, is it Mistress Pelara who records the tithes and distributes what we need to us?"

"Aye," he says and glances at the page Halbarad places afore him.

I have clutched the journal closely to my breast, as though it might shield me from my lord's displeasure.

"Is this not rather the proper duty of this house?"

My lord frowns. "Thus my mother had it arranged ere you became lady of the House."

"Aye, my lord," I say and, taking a quick breath, go on in a rush, "I doubt not your lady mother was wise in her choice and had need, but, should it please you, my lord, I wish it to be otherwise."

Now I have Halbarad's notice as well. He is silent, as is usual, but his eyes speak for him. He is very still and looks from me to my lord with a quick glance.

My lord considers me as from a distance. But then he nods and says, "Should you wish it, lady, it is yours to decide, but I leave it to you to arrange. Her father is not likely to take it kindly and you will need to speak to him, as well."

"Aye, my lord." Bowing my head, I turn away and release a long breath.

"Lady," my lord calls after me. His voice is stern, and I halt. "I would advise you to be careful in what you say. Master Maurus has been a strong ally in the Angle's council. Do not give his house reason for offense."

"Aye, my lord," I say, but he and Halbarad roll out one of my lord's maps and secure it under the oil lamps at the table and anything else easy to hand. I am already far from his mind.

~oOo~


	10. Chapter 9

~ Chapter 9 ~

_'They are a strange company, these newcomers,' said Gimli. 'Stout men and lordly they are, and the Riders of Rohan look almost as boys beside them; for they are grim men of face, worn like weathered rocks for the most part, even as Aragorn himself; and they are silent.'_

ROTK: The Passing of the Grey Company

~oOo~

_~ TA 3007, 1__st__ day of Lótessë: 3 acres for sheltering of rams and 2 wethers. 30 acres for ewes, divided with 2 gated fences between 10 acres each. One goodly sized, low, open shed with room for 50 animals come winter, 5 lambing stalls, and 1 gated stall for ram_

~oOo~

I think now that the Rangers of the North have lost their wits.

Young men who, nigh a month afore had raised their voices among their elders in councils of war, are red-faced with laughter, grinning as broadly as boys. It began in the repairing of the drystone walls that fence in the fields. The land has lain fallow for most of a generation and the walls have been left to crumble under the force of wind and rain. It is a daunting task, though the men of the North make light of hard work.

And light they make of it. Indeed, I know not how their purpose changed or when, but now a youth runs upon the wall while his mates attempt to push him off. He dances among the smooth stones, stepping lightly to avoid traps of both uncertain gravity and grasping hands until he is caught by the heel and pulled down onto his laughing friends. It is a marvel the man did not fall from the heights and crack his skull upon one of the river stones.

My lord has seated himself upon a low, flat rock among the elders of his company, their grim faces softened with laughter. I approach slowly, burdened as I am with buckets in which cups float atop cool water. He stands and calls to his men.

"A fine performance," says he. "Now let us see should you have the strength left to lift the stones you knocked down."

They right themselves from the tangle on the ground and wade through the grass toward my lord, where he and the men have returned to sorting through the rubble. One of the youths, built more slightly than the others, springs to the top of wall and they lift stones to him. My lord lifts a great stone to his man atop the fence and I gasp and stumble under my load. More than one set of hands reach to grab it from him and the next stone that is placed in his arms is considerably smaller. It seems I am not alone in my dismay.

My misstep on the uneven turf sets the tin cups to jangling within the buckets as were I wearing a bell, drawing their eyes. My lord frowns, then the rock he holds thuds onto the ground and he is striding toward me, calling as he goes.

"Gelir!"

The dancing youth springs away from the wall. His feet swifter than my lord's, he reaches me first, his pleasant, round face red from exertion and bright with his laughter. So close and I see just how young he is, and I forgive him his high spirits. He will have time enough for the boy to be worn away into the hard features of a man. A soft smile and word of thanks from me, and he grins and ducks his head. When he offers his hands to relieve me of my burden, he cannot meet my eye. For this and the glimpse of my father's belt about his waist, my heart warms toward him.

Gelir nods at my lord and smiles broadly as he passes. It seems my lord had intended for his man to assume charge of only one of the buckets, for, when he comes upon us, he scowls and looks about to speak. But Gelir has taken both and bears them back to his mates, leaving his chieftain with naught to carry when his stride reaches me. A brief, awkward moment, and then my lord shakes his head and sets pace with me, following the youth. It is all I can do not to break into smiles, though I am sure my lord can see the mirth in my eyes. Indeed, his face is gently wry. He has been caught in a neat trap by his man and knows it.

It is a short distance we walk, but I refuse to quicken my feet though I am no longer weighed down, and, for courtesy, my lord must match me. The men have clustered about the buckets of water and dip the cups therein, handing out water among them.

Emboldened by his men's concern, I say, my voice deliberately mild, "I rejoice you are feeling more yourself, my lord, but is it wise to press your body to great labor?"

"Lady," says he, letting loose a small huff of laughter, "I have cared for my body for more years than you have graced this land and know its limits, else I would not still be here to argue them with you."

"_Mayhap, my lord, thou shouldst have taken greater care in the writing of my vows, for thou chargedest me to provide for thy safekeeping. Wouldst thou hadst me foresworn?"_

He glances at me in surprise, no doubt marveling at why the words of the Elves issue forth from me at such a time. And, in truth, I can hardly contain my own, for I am greatly startled to hear my aunt's words fly from between my lips to chastise him. No matter I felt his condescension unwarranted, my father would have made his dismay at my words sharply felt. I have no right to assail my husband with my impatient tongue.

"It is not only I, my lord." I recover enough to squint into the sunlit field at the dark shapes that bend o'er the buckets. "Your men crowd you out of the hardest labor."

"Aye, so they do," he growls, but his eyes lighten fondly as he, too, looks upon them.

"Very well, lady, I shall rest," he concedes after spending some time in thought in which we walk. "But only should you join me," he says, nodding to a place apart from his men. "We have somewhat to discuss."

My lord chooses a low spot on the fence and strides a short length away. I follow him, taking up one of the buckets as I go. He lifts himself to the top of the stone wall ere dropping down on its far side, so he might look out upon the meadows and hills that surround his house. When I follow, he takes the bucket from me o'er the top of the fence ere grasping my hand. He does not oft touch me, and then only briefly and with the lightest of contacts, but here I find his grip warm and sure. I gather my skirts and, with his aid, climb after him. There, when done, he leans back against the rock wall and takes the cup I offer.

He is much taller than am I, and I cannot see all he looks upon that makes his face soften. When I have filled a cup of my own, I attempt to climb so that I may sit atop the fence to our backs. But the stones are smooth from the river and I find little good purchase. Watching me, my lord sets aside his cup, and, in a swift move, places his hands about my waist and, bending his knees, lifts me. Startled, I grab at his shoulders. He is so near his features fill my view. His face is fixed in effort, but his eyes flicker brightly at my confusion. My heart seems to have a life of its own. Whether it pounds from surprise or the fact that my lord was so close I felt his breath brush across my cheek, I cannot say.

There I sit upon the top of the fence, stunned with the effortlessness with which he placed me there. He smiles as were he teasing me for having doubted his strength.

_"My lord! Thou gavest thy word thou wouldst rest thee!"_ I scold him once I have caught my breath. But he laughs and retrieves my cup, handing it to me and leaving me to sit atop the fence and look out upon the land in which his house is nestled.

Soft green of the gently rolling meadows fades into a distant blue of the hills, covered as they are with the trees of the North. My lord now holds his cup against his breast and crosses his ankles as he looks upon them and the hawks lazily circling upon the current of air rising from the river. There he leans back against the stones and lines of care soften upon his face. He seems to have taken no great harm and I forebear to berate him further. Regardless, I am coming to understand, it would surely be to no effect should I try.

"It is beautiful here, do you not think?" he asks after a long moment, his voice quiet.

"Aye, my lord," say I, for it is.

"Aye," he murmurs ere shifting his cup to his other hand and breaking his search of the lands to gaze upon me.

He takes the fingers of my free hand in his own and with a twist of his wrist, flips it over so he may examine it from knuckles to palm. Yet, it seems he does so more for my benefit, that I might know he has seen their state, for he catches my eye and will not release it nor my hand. From dawn until well after dusk, I spent the day afore in washing the linens and clothes that had piled up greatly. My hands are still raw from the soap and cold water. I would wish to pull my hand away to hide it in the folds in my apron was it not secured in my lord's grasp.

"I do not require, lady, that you wear yourself so thin," he says, and I fall still.

I had hoped my late arrival to my lord's bed last night had passed his notice, but it seems not so. I had cleared a corner of the parlor where I could spread out the house's ledgers and look o'er them without disturbing my lord or his men. Late into the night I pondered over them, until the figures swam in a muddy soup in my head and then troubled my dreams once I relented.

"Should I find you suitable aid for the running of your house, will you accept it, lady?"

I nod, for I dare do naught else even should I not care for the help, but even then, he does not release me.

"I expect you to bring such needs to me, lady," says he in a voice both weary and stern, "not wait for me to discover them only when it becomes apparent you have suffered for their want."

When he releases my hand, it is almost a relief, for only then can I cease to stare at him. I can think of naught to say and am grateful he seems to expect no reply. Instead, we fall silent, watching the breeze as it bends the tips of the grasses. Waves of silvered green pass across the meadow and die away. The low voices of men murmur close at hand.

I wonder at the curious lightheadedness I feel. I cannot blame it upon the warmth of the sun. I had not thought my lord's touch would disturb me so, and yet it does. I had not thought the sight of his eyes so close to mine would seem so piercingly fair, the strength of his arms would send my thoughts scattering, nor the touch of his grave concern would lift my heart; and yet they do. I scrub at my brow. Is this not as it should be? Am I not his wife?

"We have yet to complete our bargain," he says, startling me into staring at him.

He may be of the race of the West unmingled, and his sight may bore through to the heart of a man, but surely he cannot tell my thoughts. I can only hope he will not name it in the open air and among his men. To my relief, it seems not, for his attention is not upon me but he takes a sip of water, looking out upon the land with a critical eye.

"How is that, my lord?"

"I have not provided for your dower, and I would not leave it undone for long."

"I had not thought of it," say I, stumbling over the words so taken aback am I at the turn in the conversation. Seldom does a bride of the Dúnedain negotiate her own dower in place of her elders.

"Then what say you name it now?"

I look out upon the pasture, squinting into the strong sun whose glare hides the men resting among the grasses. "It seems my lord already has somewhat in mind."

"I do," he says, following my gaze with his own. "I would have this house be self-sufficient, should it be able, as soon as it is able. I am told it is too late for the planting of the early beans or spring wheat," he says, "but a field ploughed now should be ready for the planting of winter crops by first frost. Should it be so, then we must clear the land and fence it in, enough to reduce our drain upon the folk of the Angle. I will find a man to assist you, who will know the care of the crops we need raise here and the management of the Angle's labor."

I nod at his thoughts. He does not need my approval, but I give it natheless.

But his face is lit with a pleased smile, and thus encouraged, I ask, "What of expanding the kitchen gardens just beyond the fruit trees, against the buttery door, my lord?"

He frowns and looks where I point, shading his eyes against the sun. "About the well?"

"Aye, a good place for a garth filled with herbs and savory plants, do you agree, my lord?"

He nods and returns to leaning against the fence. "Make your plans, lady, and it will be done."

"My thanks to you, my lord." I wonder were this the dower he had in mind when he interrupts me.

"I see you have some skill with wool," he says. "Have you the skills to raise the sheep?"

"A few."

"Would a flock of twenty meet your needs?" His gaze measures me. "The pastures would be well placed upon the western edge, do you think?" Here he nods to the green, rolling hills to our right, where they abut the edge of the woods that meanders upon the banks of the Tithecelon.

"Aye, my lord," I say, thinking of what must be done to bring the lands to self-sufficiency as I speak. One male for the first season's lambing and neighbors with which to trade for the services of their rams in the second, the flock would increase rapidly. "Ewes, a ram and a wether or two to keep him company, that would do nicely indeed as a start."

"I am glad to hear it," he says, and my face heats for my forwardness, but he seems not to mind. Indeed, he is smiling.

"My lord is generous." I look intently at the depths of my cup to keep from bringing more shame to myself. He has indeed been generous. Should my lord fail of his return, I might have a chance of keeping a living for myself and any of my children. Though my sons might inherit the land, upon my death the flock would come to my daughters, to take to whatever house to which they would go.

My lord has returned to studying the land, no doubt seeing it as he would wish it to become. I, in turn, think of the speed with which sheep can nibble green shoots down to the roots.

"You will need to build sturdy fences, my lord," I say, and he smiles in response.

"Aye, or your dower and my plans shall come to cross purposes," he says and then frowns, considering the land about us. "Can you think of aught else?"

"A well-cover might be wise, my lord."

"Think you the sheep will tumble into the well and drown?" he asks and turns an uncertain smile on me.

Sheep are not known for the sharpness of their wits, yet I do not laugh.

"No, my lord,' I say. "Should they play in the garden and we put our backs to them for but a moment, your children might."

He turns away when he nods, draining his cup to fill the silence between us. I cannot read his face, for his features are closed to me. Dropping his cup into the water, he sets the bucket atop the fence and lifts himself o'er the stones. His smile is distant, and his eyes have none of their former brightness as he relieves me of my cup and grasps my hand to ease me from the top of the wall.

I content myself with walking a step behind, so I might watch my lord as we return to his men. I had thought his wound had sapped his strength, so he gave no thought to claiming his right as my lord and groom, but now I know it is not so. His strength returns daily yet still I wait. His face is solemn and now I find a name for what lies behind this time that has grown between the exchange of our vows and the making of a marriage bed.

My lord is reluctant.

_"Were I to restrain myself to trimming the withies for thy garden fence, wilt thou beest content?"_

I am startled to find my lord looking at me, his face now clear of his disquiet. He has stopped, for we have come back to the spot where we started our conversation. He gently revenges himself upon me with the Elvish words as he offers me the bucket.

"As it please you, my lord," I say and take it from him, my voice low and my eyes demure.

He frowns but I cannot relieve his bewilderment. I have turned away and wish only to return to the house.

I can make neither heads nor tails of what my lord would have of me. And it comes to me in the walk through the grasses with the bucket swinging from my hand and the cups clanking idly within; mayhap he, himself, does not know.

~oOo~


	11. Chapter 10

~ Chapter 10 ~

_'I called for the help of the Dúnedain, and their watch was doubled; and I opened my heart to Aragorn, the heir of Isildur.'_

FOTR: The Council of Elrond

~oOo~

_~ TA 3007, 14th day of Nárië: 4 trees of apple – 20 to 40 bushels of fruit, 6 plum trees – 18 to 36 bushels come Urimë and Yavannië of TA 3010_

~oOo~

For many days, now, the winds blow upon us from the west. They have been generous with their waters and the land has turned a softly-burnished green. Spring comes to the Angle in her fullness, with warm sunlight by day and cool airs by night.

True to his word, my lord and his men built raised beds in the well yard and about them wove a fence of thin birch and willow branches. Here the tender shoots are lit by the morning sun, sheltered from the wind, and barred from predation by the creatures of forest and field. Here, between paths of sunken stone that wind through the beds, we planted cabbage, sorrel, onion, garlic, savory, basil, and sage for the comfort of the palate; valerian, mallow, comfrey, and feverfew for the comfort of the body; and lemon balm, vervain, and lavender for the comfort of the spirit. Here I shall sit upon benches of earth laid over with thick turf cut from the meadow and pluck small dusky plums and tart apples from trees that reach their long limbs over the wall.

With the sun's rising, I entered the garden and planted flowering ivies between the benches, so they may one day climb the wattle fence, and rosemary at the gate, so its brush-like branches may grow to hang heavily from the arch overhead. One day, the herbs we planted for their usefulness will grow up about the stone well and fill the air with their scents when heated by the gentle sun.

All this I see in my mind's eye, but the fruits of my labor are yet to come to pass. I have brought the potted aloe and bay from my father's home out of doors, where, now that frost no longer threatens, they are the tallest of the plantings in the garden.

My labors will be long, but the garden already shows much promise. The soil in its beds has been raked to a fine tilth and my fingers are deep in the dirt as I kneel upon the stone and thin clusters of madder shoots. Several years must yet pass, but then I shall pull the roots of the madder to make a red dye as light as the sunset upon white clouds or as dark as oxblood. Now, they are but small tender stars the color of new pease.

I lift a plant with the tip of my spade, dividing it from its mates, and pat it into the soil further apart where I hope it will take and grow strong. A lone cricket chirps plaintively along the wall of the house as the day waxes. He seems to be my only company.

My lord pores o'er his maps and journals in the hall, the warm sunlight and scents of spring streaming in through the high windows. Halbarad has walked to the market to consult with the Elders on a small matter. Master Herdir, newly made my lord's reeve, prepares the sheds for the promised flocks of sheep. Elesinda is in the buttery and dimly I can hear her beating upon pots as she puts them away from the morning meal. The younger sister of one of my lord's men, he brought her to our household just the week prior. A girl with a sweet face of delicate creams and pinks, rounded figure and blue eyes wide with awe, I knew I would find her agreeable, but mayhap too much daunted by my newfound title to be a good companion. But, today, the sun is pleasant, the soil warm, and the twittering flight of doves and chattering of chaffinches nesting in the berry brambles are enough. I find my aloneness a blessing.

A sigh escapes from me as I look o'er the gardens. I shall be here until dark should I not put aside my dreaming and increase my pace. Wiping dirt from my fingers, I shove the folded blanket further along the planks that hold the madder plants within their bed so that they shall not wander and crowd out all else that grows in the garden. I am prepared to kneel when I hear a voice calling from o'er my shoulder.

"Hello to the house!"

I turn to find a curious sight. An old man stands behind the fence where I can see him from his gray-clothed breast to the tip of the strangely shaped staff he bears and the pointed hat that perches atop his head. His face is kindly, and his beard is long and white, as are the brows that grow as thorn bushes above his keen eyes.

"Bid you good morrow, Father," I say, "How fare you?"

"Well, Daughter," says he and leans into the fence. "I have traveled far, and this seems a pleasant place. Might I join you and rest these weary bones?" His eyes twinkle at some inner amusement, making me wish to laugh, though I know not why.

"Of course, Father." I drop my spade to the soil and wipe at my hands with my apron. "You are welcome."

I meet him at the wicket and open it as he ducks beneath the arch, neatly avoiding striking the point of his hat. I follow him into the garden and he looks about him with an air of satisfaction, his bright eyes peering beneath the shadows of the fruit trees and into the corners by the buttery and pantry walls. He seems an unlikely wanderer, but his clothes, a rusty gray, are much stained with the weather and the paths he has trod. I notice, then, with a shock, a long finely-wrought sword hangs from his belt.

"Yes, yes, a pleasant place," he says, turning about to take in the gardens. His glance takes me in. "Though you, no doubt, have hopes of it being much more."

I smile. "We will build what refuges we can."

"Indeed," he says and briefly places a gnarled hand over mine where I have them clasped afore me. "May yours provide you with what peace may be found in these times and may you share it as generously with others who have need of it." He returns to surveying the kitchen yard, leaning upon his staff.

"Father," I ask, "would you break the fast of your traveling? I can offer you some ale, bread, cheese, cold meats—"

"No, no, do not trouble yourself."

"At least let me bring you some water, father. The sun grows warm and one of your years should not be under it overlong."

"Some water, yes, some water will do nicely." He seems to have chosen the spot for his rest, for he now strides along the inside of the fence, the foot of his staff thumping against the stones.

When I return from the buttery with a cup, I find him seated upon a turf bench along the fence, comfortable beneath a plum tree heavy with sprays of small white flowers. He has taken off his hat and laid it beside his pack and staff. Now he leans against the wall, the stem of a long pipe clenched between his teeth. Thin streams of smoke curl about his nose as he rests with his eyes closed and the smell of pipeweed weaves its way through the garden. He seems quite content. Though I draw water from the well, he does not stir at its bubbling or my footsteps as I approach.

"Here you are, Father," I say, and his eyes fly open.

"Ah," he says with a smile, lifting his pipe from his teeth and taking the cup from me.

Our hands touch in the passing and I feel a tingling as were I carding wool on a cold winter day. I stare at him and his eyes twinkle in the sunlight as he watches me o'er the rim of his cup. My face must be full of confused thoughts, for my mind cannot make sense of what I have seen and felt. When he first opened them to me the depths of his eyes seemed alight with a powerful fire, but now I see only his mirth playing upon their surface.

Yet, he has given me no cause for alarm. I step back and watch him, not knowing what to make of my guest. He drinks the well water as were it the finest wine, sipping it delicately ere he leans back against the fence.

"My thanks to you, Daughter."

So completely out of my depth am I, I can think of no question to ask that is not impolite. So, instead, I nod and turn to my work.

From my place kneeling afore the bed of madder plants, I can see my guest. He raises his eyes to watch the sprays of flowers above him fluttering in the breeze as he smokes. He seems but an old man content to take his rest among what beauty he can find. The sun has turned warm with its rising and the shade must be welcome to a traveler.

"Have you journeyed far, Father?" I ask, pinching away small, overcrowded seedlings.

"Aye," he says, "many have been the leagues I have walked, but most recently I have come from the land of the Halflings. Do you know it?"

Looking about, I find the spade I dropped and poke at the soil. "The Shire?" I say. "But little, more in story than aught else, though the abandoned dwellings of the small people can still be found near the riverbanks, hereabouts. They left them behind in their move west, ere men came to reclaim these lands."

"A pity. They prize gardeners there, from what I hear."

"Indeed?" And for the second time, he has made me smile. "I had not known that."

"Among other things of comfort," he says and purses his lips to send rings of smoke floating afore him.

I laugh. "A happy chance, then, you have friends in such a place."

"Yes, a happy chance, indeed," he agrees. "I would travel there more oft had I the choice." He gestures vaguely to the garden in which he rests. "And I must be sure to earn your friendship as well, lady, so as to see what you have wrought here when it comes to full flowering."

"I think I will be glad to show you," say I, warmed to an instant affection by his manner.

I return to my task. For a long moment, we are silent, each with our occupation, I with my plants and he with his pipe.

"What brings you to the Angle in your travels, might I ask?" I must raise my voice, for my efforts have taken me to the far end of the raised bed.

"A friend," says he and smiles. "I come seeking him. It has been years since last we spoke, and it came to my mind it would be good to hear his thoughts on certain matters. I may have need of his aid, should he be willing to lend it.

"Weighty words, indeed, Father, to make a journey so far as you say. I hope you will find them worthy of their purchase," I say, wedging the spade between plants and pushing them asunder.

"So do I, Daughter," he says, "but then, the words of a friend are most oft worth the price just to hear the voice that speaks them."

"_Mae Govannen!_" comes the glad call from the buttery door and we turn toward it, our conversation coming to a sudden halt. My lord strides down the garden path, his face lit with joy.

The old man rises slowly as were it against stiff joints. "Ah! And here he is now!" He steps toward my lord, his face wrinkling so in his delight his eyes show only as small points of light.

"Well met! Well met!" my lord cries and embraces the old man, who chuckles and pounds him upon his back with the palm of his sturdy hand, clutching his pipe in the other.

The old man thrusts him to arm's length. "Let me look at you!" His keen eyes peer at my lord.

"Gandalf!" My lord smiles broadly under his examination. "My heart has so hoped for your coming, I thought it a trick and not your voice I heard."

"And yet here I am, my friend," the wizard says, frowning mildly and looking him over from head to toe, "and find my worst fears have been for naught. You look well."

"Ah! 'Twas but a scratch," my lord says, grinning like a boy.

"Humph!" the old man grunts and clouts him fondly on his shoulder. "That is not what I heard, but, scratch or no, it is good to see you in such good health and high spirits."

The madder lies forgot, for I have launched myself to my feet, staring at my lord and his guest. The spade dangles loosely from my hand and I catch myself gaping at them. I have heard tales of the Grey Wanderer since my childhood, but ne'er had I seen him. Hastily, I close my mouth and straighten my shoulders, letting the spade drop to the soil. In the welcoming of guests, my rightful place is beside my lord and to him I go.

The wizard's eyes light upon me. "My friend," he says, turning, "I believe the lady is owed an introduction, at the very least for the kindliness of her welcome."

My lord retreats a pace, his face newly sober, and raises a hand to take mine formally. "Mithrandir, known as Gandalf among Men of the West, here you find Nienelen, Lady of the Dúnedain, but newly made my wife."

I think I have ne'er been so painfully aware of the dirt beneath my nails and the smudges upon my apron. I am a fine sight for such an introduction, but, eager to bring no further shame upon my lord, I incline my head and make as graceful a reverence as I am capable.

The old man's eyes sparkle, and his voice is full of a gentle mischief.

"Yes, this I hear, as well." He takes my hand from my lord. He seems not to mind its lack of cleanliness. "Please accept my best wishes for your future happiness, my lady," he says and bows o'er my hand.

He releases it to clasp that of my lord's. "And yours as well, my friend." His grip is fond, though his voice now holds a note of warning that, at the time, I did not understand. Yet, my lord returns his look dispassionately.

"But, come!" Gandalf continues, his voice warming. "We have much on which to speak, things of less joy, I fear. I would take your counsel, were you of a mood to give it."

"It is ever yours to have, my friend, such as it is in these times," my lord says. "And it seems you have counsel in mind to give, as well."

"Indeed," the old man says as he strides to where he has left his pack and staff, waving off my startled attempt at aid. "Much changes in the world, both the great and the small." He tosses his pack o'er his shoulder and lifts his hat to his head. "But ever our task remains the same, should you have the will to resume the burden." He has taken a firm grip upon his staff and now stands, leveling a stern, questioning look upon my lord.

"My heart has not changed."

My lord stands with his feet firmly planted and arms folded across his breast. They meet eye to eye, neither flinching beneath the other's sharp gaze.

"Ask what you would of me," my lord says, "you will find me ready."

"Good!" The wizard nods sharply. He clamps the pipe between his teeth and speaks around it. Small puffs of smoke come with his words. "I have much to ask!"

A small laugh escapes my lord. "As ever, but this time I would claim a fee in advance of you."

"You would?" Gandalf peers at him, a frown furrowing his face. He has come upon my lord, who relieves him of his pack.

"Aye, all for a pipeful of that leaf you smoke," my lord says, hefting the pack in his fist.

"Ah, you ask much, my friend!" The wizard's thorny brows lift high beneath the brim of his hat. "This is Longbottom leaf, no less, straight from the Hornblowers of Southfarthing."

My lord smiles and, placing a hand on the old man's shoulder, eases him along the path. "Do I not know it? Why else should I ask it of you?"

"My lady!" the wizard calls o'er his shoulder as he walks with my lord, "Shall you not intervene on my behalf and plead mercy from your husband?"

"I think, Master Gandalf," I call after them, amused, "you might consider yourself lucky he is willing to give aught in exchange."

"Humph," he grunts and turns away. Faint his voice drifts back to me as he mutters, "She has the measure of you already, dear friend."

With that, they have walked out of my hearing, two forms, one straight of shoulder and tall, the other bent beneath his labors, but, I doubt not, no less strong.

~oOo~

The smell of burning leaf drifts through the tall windows of my lord's hall where he and his guest take their ease. The young plants of the garden are well-snugged in their bed, as am I. Frogs sing from their perches in the trees and the sheets are cool beneath my arms where I hug the pillow against me. The bed is wide, and I am sunk deep into the mattress, alone as I am. A quick pass of a wet cloth to clean away the dirt of the day and I climbed into the bed, grateful to make it thus far. I am heavy of body, but light of heart and reluctant to let the day end.

The day was full, and I am content with the manner in which it passed. For my labors, I know now the garden will prosper and, for the words of the wizard, am comforted that others see its worth. I had not thought somewhat so small would concern the Mighty, and yet he took time ere the even's meal to return to the well. There, he walked the paths littered in white petals and questioned me as to the herbs I had chosen, their uses, and the manner of their growing. It seemed he already knew much of what I had to tell but would use it as an excuse to wander at his leisure amongst the flowering trees.

The meal itself was a happy affair. Where once my lord and I had dined quietly, I laughed until, weeping, I begged the wizard to cease long enough to allow me to catch my breath. It began with my tentative and polite queries as to the lands he had walked. He told tales of the little people of The Shire and I came to know more of their simple lives and dauntless hearts. Of the Elves he spoke, and I came to know more of their grace and fierce will. But it did not end there, for soon after the meal he took up stories of his travels with my lord.

At first, I hid my smiles and choked on my laughter behind my linen, glancing at my lord to gauge his mood. I should not have concerned myself, for he endured the wizard's teasing with good humor, sprawled in his chair with a cup of ale, a crooked smile lighting his face as he shook his head tolerantly. Little did I know why he was so unmoved until he spoke in his turn of the wizard, at which the old man let loose an irritable huff, all the while winking at me from across the table.

They spoke of rainwater pouring from scabbards, dunkings in rivers, wizards and dwarves perched in the upper boughs of trees, sheep mistaken for trolls in the dark of night, and the hazards of traveling with Elven companions who failed utterly to account for the limits of mortal flesh. In each tale, danger loomed large behind the laughter, but they made light of it and of each other with such companionable warmth I soon laughed openly.

Thus the evening passed, and though I tired, I was reluctant to leave their company. Until this night, I had not seen my lord's face lit full by his mirth nor his frame limp with his ease. Gone was the reserve that kept him silent. Gone were the cares that kept his face solemn and the burden that stiffened his back. It seemed that, until this night, though I had known the lord, I had not known the man.

So, it was with regret I finally parted from their company. I had little choice, for I dozed with my head propped upon my fist only to startle awake at my lord's touch. The wizard pulled on his pipe silently, his eyes twinkling as they watched through the haze of the smoke drifting about his head. Tugging upon my wrist, my lord lifted me to my feet and ushered me to the stairs, all the while forbidding me to pour them more ale or find some last bit of food for them to eat.

When I protested my need to check our guest's bed for his comfort, from the foot of the stairs my lord commanded me, "Nay, lady. Sleep!"

And so, I sleep and my lord and his guest's voices drift into the solar with their pipe-smoke. There they lull me into slumber and mingle with my dreams.

"Think you truly the Halfling's ring is the One?" My lord's voice is slow and thoughtful.

"He ages little," the wizard's voice says.

"And that is sign enough?"

"Have you doubts?"

"About many things," my lord says. "We are hard-pressed as it stands and soon will become more so. It is a grave risk we take, placing so much faith in this and so little left for aught else. I would know more of this ring and who knows it has emerged from its long hiding place. Should you have come to ask my counsel, it is unchanged from years past."

The wizard's voice grunts in agreement and I can all but see him sending streams of smoke into the air between them. "Can you spare me your services?"

My lord's voice answers, "Aye, though the trail be cold."

"But the need great and I have faith in your skills, my friend." Mirth warms the old man's voice.

Some unspoken confidence must have passed between them, for the wizard goes on.

"Then I shall return to Rivendell, to consult once more with its Master ere I join you. Between us two we shall find this Gollum and see what riddles he can answer." He sighs ere speaking in quiet tones. "I have come too oft to the Shire and draw too many eyes that we can ill afford to be directed hence. Though I shall miss him greatly, my heart tells me I shall not see Frodo again soon. Keep watch will you, my friend?"

"It has been done."

Wood creaks in the silence that falls between them. When I hear the old man's voice again, it is close, as had he risen and now looks through the windows at the stars above the meadow.

"You have found yourself a pleasing place to rest from your wandering. I confess I wondered should you not wish to be wrested from it."

"Do you think my resolve so thin?" I have heard that tone to my lord's voice afore. Its chill holds a warning I am glad has not yet been turned upon me.

"Come! Come now!" the wizard says, and his voice becomes a murmur, as had he turned from the window. "Do not distress yourself. I have good reason to wonder."

"My heart is unchanged, Gandalf."

"In all things?" For all that the question is mild, the wizard's voice has sharpened.

My lord's voice falls quiet and he pauses ere he speaks. "In all things."

"Strange then, that you have chosen this path."

"Many roads may lead to the same end. Should my path have changed, Gandalf, it does not follow that the goal of the journey has changed with it."

"Humph," the wizard grunts and the smell of his pipe grows strong. "Then should this be your path, best you tread on it with both feet and looking ahead, not over your shoulder at the way abandoned."

My lord does not answer, and in the silence, the wizard's voice strengthens again.

"She is much as her garden," he says. "Much in it of charm, usefulness, and comfort, but will require time to reach full flower. Should you rise to what you aspire, my friend, she should be prepared for it. You have the will. Have you the desire?"

Footsteps scuff along the floor as my lord rises. His cup hits the table with a dull clank.

"Ah, well, you will sort it out," the wizard says briskly when the question goes unanswered, "and I have meddled enough in your private affairs."

"Come, my friend!" The old man's voice fades until, in my dreams, I know not an he speaks or an I hear the insects' song upon the night air. "Show me to my pallet. The sun shall rise soon enough, and we can continue our debates then."

~oOo~


	12. Chapter 11

~ Chapter 11 ~

_'He is the Chief of the Dúnedain in the North, and few are now left of that folk.'_

FOTR: The Council of Elrond

~oOo~

_~ TA 3007, 17th day of Cermië: With the number of holdings now upon the Angle, each full virgate owes 16 bushels of tithe. Full virgate – with 16 acres planted is 160 bushels, less 48 to seed and 16 of tithe is 96. Half virgate 48 bushels. 7 families come to Angle TA 3004, 8 families in Angle TA 3005, 13 in Angle TA 3006. 13 families with 48 bushels each is 624 bushels sum. One oxgang per full virgate. 7 new oxgangs needed should we have again 13 more families flee hence. More, should the increase in numbers hold. _

~oOo~

The broad leaves of the bean bushes tremble in the breeze, their green so bright they seem to glow against the blackness that is the dirt. Ahead, boys switch at goats with their long withies stripped from the willow trees. The beasts trot down the path with their stiff-legged gait, swaying bellies, and wagging beards as their young herders call out and press them to their day's pasture.

The folk of the Angle ply their hoes upon the soil, the heads of their tools rising and falling as they work their way down the rows, ridding the field of weeds. The day afore they worked the lands of my lord's house, turning aside the soil about a field of wheat so tender it hung as a green mist rising from the soil. His reeve paced out the furlongs in my lord's fields and directed its ploughing and planting.

Today Master Herdir has set the men to work in the fields along the path to the square of the Angle. The musk of fresh-turned earth and their song floats across the valley, and I catch a word or two among the music. Halbarad, whose broad hand clutches my journal to his hip, walks behind me to guard his lord wife's steps and bear her burdens. He watches the men and his stride marks time to their steady rhythm. I wonder should he know it.

He is, as always, quiet of voice and solid of step. Glad am I, for I am deep in the figuring of tithes and what the fields may yield. I shake my head, for I can make little sense of my thoughts.

Should he be so endowed of his holdings, twenty-four acres, a full virgate, a man might have in the Angle. Of it he will plant but sixteen each year, leaving the fallow eight for the pasture of his and his fellow's beasts and fodder for their winter. Should the Valar be so kind, he might hope to reap ten bushels from each acre of wheat or beans and lentils in the summer and then rye upon the fall. One hundred and sixty in all, forty-eight of which he owes to the next planting's seed and sixteen of which he owes the House of Isildur in tithe. This leaves him with ninety-six, all of which he will need to feed and otherwise provide for his own family o'er the year. The House shall need as much and more, for it feeds not only its own, but provides commons to my lord's men, provision for his men's households should they be of the Angle, and the succor of those of his folk in need.

Aye, aye, and aye! This I know and understand. But what of those of our people who flee to us after the ploughing and planting of seed? How shall the land feed them?

Should a dozen families flee hither, we shall need over five hundred bushels to feed them. That is at least fifty acres of land to be worked! Who shall work it? True these twelve new to the Angle could plough up acreage in the spring, and shall owe the House, together, a total of nigh two hundred bushels that might be used to feed five more families should we be spare in the giving or the families are small.

But where shall come the seed for their next spring's planting? And whose land shall it be? Shall those who work it owe a tithe to the lord for his holding, or shall it remain in the name of The House? Or is it somewhat altogether new and none shall own or owe tithes of it?

And then there is this, a man who holds a full virgate in the Angle is a man of wealth. What of those who hold less? A half-virgate can feed a family in a good year but leave no surplus for trade for the family's other needs. Shall our wandering folk of the clans of the _Gornwaith _or homesteaders of the _Bavrodhrim _all become cotters, then, with no land of their own? Shall the Angle become of two kinds, those who are landed and those who slave in the service of the bread they might earn from day's-work?

_Ai!_ My head hurts.

My lord's lady mother's ledgers contain no accounting of such things. She lived simply, quietly and with few visitors. I found but the occasional reference to those who came to her for aid, and for nigh a generation of men, with my lord gone to lands far from his home and his mother under the care of the Lord of the Hidden Vale, there has been no House to record such things. So, no matter how oft I pore over the steady columns of figures, I find no help there.

The hens cluck weakly in their pens outside the Elder's home, the sun beating upon them and bending their heads beneath their wings with its sleepy warmth. Well, I am come, and am no closer to my answer than I was afore.

"I shall return for you upon the noon meal, my lady," Halbarad says shortly as he thrusts what are now my ledgers into my hands, and it takes a great act of will for me to forebear from staring at him.

So, this is what Halbarad thinks of my efforts. He thinks me a fool and, knowing it is not his place to say so, waits for the Elder to teach me a lesson in it. In truth, I am unsure he may not have the right of it.

"My thanks to you, Ranger Halbarad," I say and settle the leather folder upon my hip. It weighs as much as a newborn babe and seems to have brought as much unrest to my nights.

He takes his leave and I think him relieved to be gone, for I sent word ahead of my desire to speak with the mistress and she stands in her open door.

"Good morrow, Mistress Pelara," I say, and she bows her head and greets me in return, bringing her knuckles to her brow.

"You are welcome in my home, my lady," she says, but the words are stiffly delivered, and I wonder at her true feelings on the matter. Still, she backs away from the door and allows me entrance.

The Elder is nowhere in sight, and, in his place at the table, I see Mistress Pelara has laid out her accounts. They await my scrutiny and it is to them she ushers me. The brazier yet sits by the table, but its belly is cold, and the table bare of aught else but her lists. No sharp smell of rosehips and chamomile nor tart words fondly traded between father and daughter to greet me. I am not a fool. Or mayhap, say rather I am not so much a fool as to think she would welcome me warmly under such circumstances, but I had hoped for better than this.

"Would you wish for refreshment, lady?"

"Yes, Mistress," I say, should it only be to relieve me of her gaze, and she bows, leaving me to the pages of lists.

_Ai! _

I have made my way through the accounting of tithes received in the past weeks and have moved on to the purchases made on my lord's House's behalf when the mistress returns. I am appalled! How could one house require so much in beef, pork and grain? And in but a sennight's time! _Ai! _What must the mistress think of my sense of economy? Ah, there is but one thing to think. It is apparent from these lists I have none.

She sets upon the table a pitcher of strong-smelling ale, and though she now sits across the table from me, I dare not lift my face from the sheets. I must seem to be turning the most intense of studies upon them, but I care not, for my cheeks are on fire for my shame. She waits impatiently, her arms tucked under her breast. I marvel she has said naught and think her only waiting to see what excuse I have to offer for my failings. Oh, I cannot say I place much blame upon her feeling. For here I sit in the Lady Gilraen's place, a woman much younger in years and wisdom than either the lady or her maid.

The letters are as the tracks of the Elder's clucking hens for all I can make sense of them, though they are placed upon the page with great care. I blink my eyes clear and swallow what little pride I might have left. Oh, yes, aye, there are among the lists an accounting of the purchase of onions and greens, aye, a mattock and spade, aye, that too, and an undue number of pots and blankets-

Blankets?

It seems the table tilts beneath my eyes and my thoughts draw sharply upon the page. How is this? Blankets, ten of them, and made of sturdy wool, purchased in exchange for a half-bushel of rye. What need has my lord's House of blankets? I brought many with me, of my own make, to a house that already had many of them. Where are they, these blankets I did not make and have not seen? And indeed, then, has the House truly consumed so much of what is contained herein? To my recollection, we have not had so much of pork as these lists might tell, and most assuredly not of beef.

My lord commanded I not bring insult to the house of the Elder and his daughter, but now I must wonder do they not take gross advantage of his goodwill.

Mayhap I did not hide my displeasure so well as I thought, for the mistress shifts about on her seat and then launches herself to her feet. She goes to the tall chest and, wrenching it open, draws from it a cup. She says naught nor meets my eye when she pours the ale and sets the cup afore me.

"My thanks to you, Mistress."

I drink of the ale, lacking aught better to do. The taste is smooth with a deeply roasted mash of oats and somewhat else I cannot discern and know shall never be revealed. The mistress well deserves her reputation and no doubt keeps the tale of its brewing closely guarded.

"I have not yet set the doings of the past two days to the ledgers, lady," says she. "More of our folk came out from the Wild seeking aid, and we spent much of the time getting them settled."

I nod, swallowing the ale, for I had noted the lack, though had thought it of little account. I am silent for a moment more, for I need weigh my words carefully.

"Mistress, you kept these books in the same manner as e'er you have for the House?"

"Aye, as the Lady Gilraen directed me, so I have continued."

"And you keep therein an account of what is purchased in its name and is given to it in tithe?"

"Aye," she says, and from her look it seems she marvels I do not find this evident in what I have read.

"But not, I take it, strictly that which is put into use by the House."

"No, what need had the House was my lady's care and I did not question it. I was given to understand you to be occupied with the concerns of the House and of a mind to keep to it, and so I did not take its inventory. Should I have been wrong, I would beg forgiveness of you, lady."

"And so, how much of this," I say and, ignoring the implied insult, indicate the ledgers, "was purchased in the name of the House, but was not for its use?"

I think this stings, for Mistress Pelara's face stiffens into subtle lines of resentment.

"My lady did as was proper and provided for those in need of the Angle atimes, but mayhap you would not know much of that."

The ale turns bitter upon my tongue, but it is not its brewing that gives it its taste.

_"Aye, I am sure she deserved thy loyalty and thee made her a very good servant,"_ say I.

At this, she colors and seems to bite back her anger. It is good, mayhap, the mistress does not speak, for I, too, need take a cooler breath, for greatly now do I rue the words that slipped from betwixt my lips. Ah, but they were petty and unworthy of either my father's daughter or my lord's wife.

_Ai,_ I am making such a mess of things should I not mend this my lord shall greatly regret his choice. I shall indeed feel the cold weight of his disapproval and deserve it.

I rub at my brow and I think the mistress, too, reconsidering, for her gaze falls all places but upon me, and a quick glance reveals her face is drawn and weary.

"Mistress, you do not deserve harsh words, and I am shamed to have delivered them," say I and she nods, worrying a fold of her skirts between her fingers.

With a sigh, I look again to the ledgers she keeps. 'Tis much as I expected, and I find few answers in their lists.

"Aye, Mistress, I do wish for the House to provide for those in need of our folk, but they are of such numbers they lie spread across the whole of Eriador. Should but half of those dispossessed make their way to the Angle-." Here I stop and shake my head.

"Would you have them go hungry and want for shelter, then, lady?"

"No! They lay heavy upon my thoughts, Mistress. I know not how to meet their need, but I know the House of Isildur shall not be sufficient aid."

"Aye." Mistress Pelara rises, her face grim. With this, she goes to the chest and pulls from it a bowl of hardy cakes wrapped in linen that smell of oat, walnut, and honey. "Did you know of the dispute between Elder Lorn and the wanderer of the _Imlothrim _clan?"

"Aye," I say, for indeed I had heard of it. The Angle's council found in favor of its own and the family newly become our neighbors were thrust from the land which they claimed. It had not helped that the man of the wandering clans had been an unpleasant sort and had set his boundaries o'er another's who could claim it for nigh on six generations back. It had come to blows between more than just the two men involved and bred resentments and fears among those who had no need of them. Such was the chilling effect, those not born of the Angle were allowed little right to find land on which to settle. And so, by default, did this new custom of the Angle come to be, conceived in fear and birthed by distrust.

"Aye," she says, her voice echoing harshly in the small room. "'Tis easier to fear the wolf at your door than the warg that howls from o'er the hill."

"Will you not help me, Mistress?"

"Och!" she grunts, her voice muffled behind the doors of the chest. There she takes up linens and a cup for herself. "And you will need help. You may have married our lord, my lady, but it will matter naught until you are mother to his heir."

Glad am I for the chest's doors, for I know not how well I hide the suddenness of my alarm at her words. Oh, I am not so thick this had not occurred to me, but I had not known it so common a thought it might be stated thus baldly.

"Should you think to gain the ear of the Council through me," Mistress Pelara says as she set the bowl of cakes and an empty cup upon the table, "and thereby through my father, I would caution you against it, my lady. Though it love the lord and respects his law, the Angle would ever be ruled by its own."

"In truth, Mistress, I had not thought it."

The sound she makes as she sits would be of scorn, had it not come from a face made bitter by disappointment. "And you think, lady, you will succeed where the Council has not?"

"I have somewhat the Council does not."

She does not reply, for it seems she thinks it unworthy of her efforts. Instead, she shakes her head, and unwraps the linen from the cakes and arranges the napkins to her liking.

"Do you not know?" I ask, and her eye comes upon me sharply for the mirth with which I warm my voice. "I came not to supplant you in your place among those of the Angle. I came to elevate it. I came in hopes that I might have the ear of a woman of the Angle who knows well their workings."

"Me?" she scoffs.

"Mistress," I say, "my father may have been of the Angle, but my mother was not. She was of the clan of the _Nadhorim and _wandered from winter to summer pastures with her father as do all those of our folk of Emyn Uial and the North Downs. Loathe was she to give up the life and consented to my father's offer of marriage only when her family fled south. I owe a debt to both. I have not forgotten it. Are not there many of us with just that debt? Did not we all come upon the Angle as a refuge from some Darkness?"

"Aye, but some ere others by some hundreds of years," she says and pours herself of the ale.

"Tell me, when was the last time the Angle's council esteemed them enough to ask aught of its women? You cannot convince me you have no thoughts about our Elders' rulings you would not gladly have shared with them, had you the chance."

"Well, then," she says and sets her cup and pitcher upon the table of a sudden. The cup is but half-full and yet she leaves off her pouring. Ah, but there is a wicked gleam deep within her gaze as she sits. "Should you wish me seated upon the Council in effect, were it not in fact, what is it you have in mind, my lady?"

~oOo~

We have taken to accounting the yield and work of the Angle in a spill of beans and lentils upon the Elder's broad table. Cups, pitcher, and bowl are empty, and crumbs litter the space between us, for the hours of the morning draw swiftly to a close.

"But," begin I, my head hurting. I point to lentils grouped in piles of two, six, and more. "Have we not enough oxen, now?"

"No, my lady," Mistress Pelara says. "You forget the need for meat o'er winter increases with each family that arrives." And here she points to a pile of beans in groups of three to six each. "Should they not eat from our herd of cattle, they shall eat the fish, rabbit, and mutton of those who will need more to replace what was eaten."

"Ah," is all I can think to say.

"Aye, well, we must take to convincing Elder Tanaes to leave off his slaughter of all the good beasts of the Angle come winter. Mayhap the bulls shall mature the more quickly and take to the halter and plough should we convince them of the need."

"Aye, and the hay that will be their fodder shall leap from the meadows and settle in our barns ere the first snow falls, too," I say rubbing at the fine hairs beneath the linen about my head.

At this the mistress snorts. "Ah! Well, my lady, it will matter little should we cannot convince the Council to break ground on new land. We shall need neither the oxen nor the hay to feed them, shall they not see reason."

"Aye, aye, aye," I say and resolutely turn again to the beans stacked afore me. "And the Council will not break new ground for the increase in portioning of tithes to and the number of votes wielded by the House when it sits with them."

"Aye, my lady, and they fear the House would soon outweigh them in their deliberations should all our folk flee hence."

"Aye, well, ere we discover what they need to allay their fears, we must decide how dear the price we need ask of them. And it must be asked. Should we not assart more land for planting we shall soon have folk who will sacrifice their pastures and plant them instead. And soon the soil shall strangle for it and we will not get much in yield no matter which field is planted and how good the weather for it."

Ten families have I yet accounted for, and more to go, one bean per acre of land. Mistress Pelara goes on then to divide them into those that have been ploughed and those that lie fallow. So deep are we in our figuring, we saw not the shadow cross the doorway nor heard the thump of stick and scuff of feet following it.

"What are you about, Daughter?" comes the Elder's voice. He squints into the dimness that is his hall from the bright summer day behind him. "Is it safe to come in, now? Or am I still to be banished from my own home?"

"Nay, Father, come in," she says and makes room for him on the bench.

He blinks and shuffles to the table, his eyes squinting at the mess upon the table.

"What is this about?" he asks when he comes near.

I dare not answer, for my lips move with the numbers I count, and I fear to lose my place. I do not wish to do this more times than necessary.

"The lady counts out what acres the Angle claims to the plough and I divide it by what they may yield," Mistress Pelara says, her fingers busy, and her father huffs impatiently.

He shakes his head and seeks out a bare spot on the table, so he might use it as a prop and ease his bones to sitting. The wood creaks beneath his thick fingers and he lets loose a long breath.

"Father-," she begins, but he cuts her off.

"Oh, aye, there is great need for it," he says, and knocks about the table with the head of his stick, seeking to lean it against the wood. "But you'll not get all you hope from it, mark my words."

His light eyes take in the scattering of beans. "How much yield have you figured there, hmm? Five bushels per acre?

"Seven, Elder Maurus," say I and pause in my counting.

"Eh, what?" he asks, cupping his hand about his ear.

"Seven!" I say, and the Mistress goes on, "And that figuring in what the land may refuse to yield or take back as its own."

"Ah!" he says. "Best to count on no more than three, then."

"Father!" she says. "When has the land ever yielded so poorly?"

"Did you think of the wet that can come upon the harvest? Hmm?" he asks. "Or fields so muddy they cannot be ploughed 'til the season is half gone? You may not recall it, Daughter, but well I remember the winters that followed. Hunger, there was, until the Angle and all about was sick for it. So many the dead, it was all we could to bury them, weak with starvation and illness as we were ourselves. Poor sods traded e'en the clothes off their backs for a bit of grain, and still died naked in the cold for naught to burn to keep them warm."

"Aye, Father, 'tis true, but we could then plough all the land from here to the Misty Mountains and still go hungry in such a season."

"And do not forget the rot! Plant all the new fields you like, harvest it and it all come to naught in the end," he says, and I wonder had he heard aught his daughter said. He waves his hand above the table. "Ah! Convince the Council to plough new ground and grant all who come here holdings. Holdings and barns and sheds are of no use should not the folk have means by which to defend the land, no matter what the Angle gives up in exchange. "

The mistress looks upon her father, her eyes stern and lips pressed in a thin line. "You have been talking with Master Bachor, again."

He grunts and lifts his cap from his head to slam it upon the table, scattering the beans. He rubs wearily at his pate and brow.

"Well, then, Father. You have done what you can," she says with a more sympathetic look. "Give it a rest."

"Bah!" he says and waves her away. "Should you not be getting the noon meal ready, Pelara?"

"Come up with you, then," his daughter says and, though she gives him a weary look, by dint of her hand beneath his arm, lifts the old man to his feet. "Go, get you some rest and, when you awake, I will make you cakes for your tea after the meal."

He takes his stick from her and begins his creaking journey to their inner rooms.

"You have not eaten them all, have you?" His glance comes quick upon the crumbs and empty bowl. "Tut! Daughter! The oat cakes? How could you? You know I am partial to them," he says, his voice grown soft and querulous.

"Aye, now, Father, you will get your cakes," she says, walking with him and easing his way. "There is more where they came from."

"Aye, but for how long, Daughter? How long, eh?"

And with that their voices fall to murmuring within their private rooms. The broad rug of morning that shone through the open door has shrunk to a mere pittance of its former length. Halbarad is late in his promised return and I worry for the meal I am to serve my lord and his guest, for I left the Grey Wanderer and my lord sitting in the garden and lighting their pipes. My lord seemed determined to smoke his share of the wizard's supply of leaf, but I think he shall soon find it insufficient and wish for somewhat to fill his belly as well.

In my hosts' absence, I scrape together the lentils and beans, careful to keep them to their separate piles. Soon my journal is assembled and tied, and the Mistress' pages stacked according to each date and purpose. True it is, I may have little of substance to show for it, but, all in all, I think the morning well spent.

~oOo~


	13. Chapter 12

~ Chapter 12 ~

_'I have waited on faltering feet long enough. Since they falter no longer, it seems, may I not now spend my life as I will?'_

_'Few may do that with honour,' he answered._

ROTK: The Passing of the Grey Company

~oOo~

_~ TA 3007, 21st day of Nárië: Charges: 20 ewes, polled, most 50 to 60 pounds. 1 ram, horned, 93 pounds. Three wethers, horned, 70, 77, 83 pounds each, Outercoat staples of near hands-length – coarse to the hand. Undercoat of small-finger's length, very soft, fine. _

~oOo~

Within days of his coming, Mithrandir left our company. He made no promise to return, no assurance he would send word, but embraced my lord, pressed my hand and, with a wink, turned and resumed his wandering. Short indeed, had been his visit, but the hall seemed the emptier for his having gone. For Halbarad, too, was gone, riding upon the Great Road, gathering news and seeing to the safety of the lands about the Angle. My lord and I spoke but little, settling back into our quiet routine. Now we are come near the weeks of midsummer, his men command much of his time.

Tonight, the spindle and loom lie untended and my lord is away from home. I spent my midday meal in the house of Elder Maurus, learning the ways of my lord's House and the tithes the Angle owes it. When done, I walked the path back without seeing the mud and stones beneath my feet, for my head teamed with numbers and complex interweaving of threads of exchanges of goods and services.

I was met on my journey by my lord's dower gift, a small herd of round bodies trotting briskly afore Master Herdir and his spotted dog. A man in his mid-years, my lord's reeve is thick-fingered, barreled-breasted, and bowed of legs. His folk came to the Angle from nigh our southern borders many years past and he bears their look in light skin that chaps easily in the wind and leaves nose and cheeks reddened. A man of good sense, he has an eye for the weather that goes unparalleled among our folk. He speaks to me as were I a newly-wedded wife to his son; with good humor and a growing fondness, but without undue familiarity. I have grown to like him already in the short time I have had with him.

And so, I spent the afternoon with Master Herdir inspecting the sheep and settling them into their new home. They were well-purchased, healthy, solid of foot, hard of mouth, bright of eye, and soft of coat. Soon, they would be left to wander the meadow, trusting to their love of home to bring them back, but tonight they clustered about in the shed, bumping each other and bleating as they nudged for places at the manger.

When I finally arrived at the house, my lord was not yet come, nor were he and his men expected for the even's meal. Duties kept my lord to the homes of his people, which was a good, for I stank of sheep, their fodder and the grease that clings to their coats. And so, I sent Elesinda home and cut a long leaf from my mother's aloe from where it is sat in the middle of the garden.

Ah! I had neglected my hair for far too long. But, there was no need to prepare a meal more demanding than slices of bread and cheese. Naught of laundry, the accounting of the days, the tending to the plants of the garden, nor sweeping or laying of the hearth to be done. No plans that could not wait until the morrow, and naught of my lord to see to his comfort. And so, here, in the quiet, I could remove scarf and undo my braids and fear no interruption or eyes upon me.

I let my mind drift, humming to myself as I rubbed and squeezed the aloe into my curls and awaited the water slowly heating upon the hearth and the comfort of a bath. Though I took my time, my lord did not return until the water stood cooling in its great tub and I, my bath done, stood in my shift afore the fire, wringing out my hair with a towel.

The tall hinged screen I placed about the tub hid him from my view when he entered, but I knew it was my lord from his step. Firm and sure, I have come to know it. I knew, too, the youth walking the grounds would have let no other enter the house. My lord did not cross the hall to his table, as I thought he would, but, from the creak of the buttery door, sought somewhat of refreshment first. Skins of wine hang from the rafters and barrels of ale sit in the cool shadows of that room.

But he would soon come into his hall. And what then shall I do? Shall I retreat to the solar? True we share a bed and true he has seen me in my shift and e'en less ere now. But the swift undressing and wrapping of my hair in the dark ere slipping between the sheets shall in no way compare to standing afore the light of the hearth's flames. And yet, is not this, too, the proper place of a wife?

Considering this, I squeeze out the dampness to the ends of my hair and move to a bench close to the hearth. There, I toss the towel to its surface and, sitting, tuck my bare feet beneath the seat. I have built up the fire and the flames run greedily across the dry wood and sap hisses and whines as it boils. I take up a small, glass stoppered bottle and shake it. Warmed by the fire and the rubbing of my palms, the oil and water I pour from it smells of my father's gardens beneath the midsummer sun.

I shake my head. I have no answer and my thoughts could easily convince me one way or the other, to stay or to go.

Soft footsteps come from the buttery. My lord enters his hall, ducking his head to avoid the lintel of the low-set door. He holds a cup in his hand from which he sips and, by the scent I know it to be the wine. His steps slow as he crosses the hall, watching as I take up handfuls of my hair and rub the oil into it, easing my way from scalp to ends.

"My lord," I say, and I catch his look ere I must drop my eyes.

His face seems, at first, carefully blank of all thought. Then he smiles briefly in greeting, more out of courtesy, I think, than with intent. The very air about me thins until I cannot breathe.

"Lady," he says softly in greeting and then he has passed.

I know not whether to be disheartened or relieved. In my confusion, I cannot bring my eyes upon him and so do not see that his look yet lingers even as he moves behind me to set his cup upon the table. He does not seat himself, nor return to the work laid out there.

Had I seen through his eyes, I would have known that against the glow of the fire my form was a dark shadow in the halo of the thin linen I wear. And had I but turned my head a little, I would have seen my lord with his hand lying still on the rim of his cup where he set it. For a moment, he stands thus, with his eyes cast down. But all this I did not know, not until his hand covers mine.

"Allow me," he says when I twist about in surprise. My lord comes to straddle the bench beside me.

I had lifted the comb to draw it through the ends my hair when he stopped me. His face is more resolute than mayhap the task may demand, but I release the comb to him and turn to the hearth, so he may tend to my hair.

"When I was very young, my mother would sit by the fire after her bath." With that, he sets the comb to my hair. "I had almost forgotten, until now." A soft smile graces his features as he pulls the comb. "She would have me run for her comb and pins," he says, and his voice grows fond at the memory. "They were a gift from my father, she said. Silver, with pearls at their tips, I would play with them while I watched her dry her hair."

With that, my lord falls silent. I can think of naught to say in reply while the comb works its way into the hair about my scalp. It is difficult to imagine my lord as a small boy, innocent and eager to bask in his mother's warmth. In his grooming, my lord comes upon snarls of tight curls. His brow puckers gently as he works at it, pulling upon my hair. My lord is unpracticed in the skill and I wonder should I endure the pain for the sake of encouraging him to continue, that is until a particularly sharp tug upon my scalp forces the decision for me.

His hand stills when my fingers light upon his. And though I dare not meet his eyes while I do so, I show him the way of ease the tangle with his fingers and starting at the ends and holding the strands above the knot as the comb puzzles it out so that the hair does not tear, and my head does not smart.

He makes no comment when he takes up the comb again. Though he takes great care to do as I showed him and cause me no further discomfort, his face is solemn, and he seems to weigh somewhat in his mind.

The silence lengthens as my lord's fingers work, gathering up my hair and pulling the comb through it, and I hear naught but the wood settling in the hearth as it burns, the crack of the sap, and the creak of the bench as my lord moves. He is thorough in his work, drawing the comb through, and then, following my example, lifting each lock in turn and running it through his fingers and squeezing it in palms anointed with the oil. I can feel each strand of hair as he touches it and soon, though the silence presses as a dark cloud upon me, I ache. The brush of his fingers along the nape of my neck as he gathers my hair and the slow, gentle breathing beside me do little to ease the pain.

"You did not mind it?" I ask and when his look is puzzled, go on, "waiting upon your mother."

"No," he says with a slight lift of his shoulders as he slowly teases apart strands of hair with the end of the comb. "She was beautiful."

At this, I must smile, though I turn my head to do so. For they say of the men of the House of Elendil are distant sons to Beren the One-Handed in this, that, for all their strength, it takes naught but a woman of fair form and face to lay them low.

My lord catches my eye. "Your father must have done much the same, did he not?"

"Aye," I say, "he would praise my swift feet just to give them speed when he had an errand for me to run."

"Just so," my lord says and briefly returns my smile, but then falls still.

The quiet of his hands draws my notice and I find my lord looking upon me solemnly, the comb and the hand that holds it lying upon his lap. Some debate passes behind his eyes, but I know not what it might be. After what seems a moment of hesitance, he lifts a hand to pull a wayward curl of my hair through his fingers. He frowns a little and releases it ere he speaks.

"Is it such a difficult thing to be at ease with me, lady?"

'Tis not a question I expected, and, for an instant, my mind is empty of thought.

It is not that I lack for answers. I am far too rich with them. I cannot tell my lord to lay down the weight of experience his years give him that outstrips even those of my father. I cannot tell him to dull the keenness of his gaze that lays me bare. And I cannot tell him to set aside the power of his House that is far beyond my ken. That he might be born of mortal woman and have the appetites of a mere man seems a fearsome and yet powerfully stirring thing. I hardly know whether to cower or throw myself in his arms and pray I might somehow survive the stern fire that burns so brightly within him.

"I hardly know you, my lord," I finally say, for lack of aught easier to say.

By his expression, my lord considers this as he runs his hands upon his knees.

"What would you know?" he asks, and I wince at the meagerness of thought he must assume lies behind my explanation.

There I am, caught in the simple-mindedness of my own trap. What would I know? Do I wish to plumb the source of my lord's reluctance? Do I wish to know why he must gather his resolve when he thinks to touch me? Who the Tinúviel of his weary dreams might be? Why it is I who am here and not she?

And would the answers give me ease with my lord?

Distracted by my thoughts, I have reached for the comb where my lord holds it, for he has groomed all he can reach and the weight of wet and tangled hair upon one side begs for attention. The shake of his head breaks me from my musings and, with a jerk of his chin, my lord urges me to move.

"Come," he says and, taking my hand, directs me to step over the bench and settle beside him again where he can complete the task he started.

"Well?" my lord prompts gently as his fingers press into my scalp, and he pulls them through my hair ere setting the comb to it.

It seems my mouth is full of wool. Aye, I have my lord's ear, but, unfortunately, naught of great consequence to put in it. I had only hoped to break the silence with the first thing that came to mind. Now I only wish I had not opened my mouth.

Were they any other hands, I think, I would be content to forgo conversation and lose myself in the faint roar of the flames, the heat of the fire upon my back, the scent of lavender, and the strength of the fingers in my hair. In truth, I do not know this man who now works to divide a length of my hair from the rest. I nigh despair of finding a question to ask him, but then, I recall his look when my lord spoke of his mother.

"Have you memories of your father, my lord?"

"Few." He frowns in thought, but then his face lightens. "He was very tall."

I smile behind my curtain of damp hair, for I am sure the Lord of the Dúnedain must have looked as the very trees of the forest to his infant son.

"I think he must have placed me on his horse once. I remember him leading it about and I clutching to the saddle, just out there," he says and points the comb through the wall and at the garden ere drawing it again through my hair.

"Did it frighten you, my lord?"

"No, I recall being quite delighted," he says and smiles, "that is, until my mother pulled me from the saddle."

At that, I laugh, for I am sure the woman gave his father a tongue-lashing that awed their young son.

My lord's face is fond as his fingers slide through a length of hair at my scalp until he has it grasped by the roots, where he squeezes it, gently pressing the oil to it. For a long moment, we sit in the small circle of the hearth's light and he seems to relive the memory of a time when the house and its grounds must have been as wide as the world to him. Then my lord sighs a little and his face grows solemn.

"But I remember best my mother when he would return home," my lord says, though his look is far grave for what must be a remembrance of sudden joy.

I, too, know a day when the return does not bring joy and he must see it in my face.

My lord lifts aside the weight of my hair.

"It seems you and I must take what comfort in memories we can." With the very tip of a finger, he traces the line of cord that lies upon my neck.

I fall still beneath his touch, as were I to move I might cut myself upon his hand. I am unsure how I thought he would not know it for what it is, this thing I wear, for I do not remove the string with its small, colorful purse, bearing it about my neck even into my lord's bed. He must wonder at what it contains, and who gifted it to me. Mayhap he thinks I come to him wearing the token of a love lost, a heart already broken ere I might offer it to him and would banish the mystery of this ghost that stands between us. I know not what a man such as my lord might think of having a rival, no matter how insubstantial.

But when I raise my eyes from the floor, the look I receive from my lord is a thing of sorrow and pity. I am unsure what impulse drives me next, but I grasp the small packet and pull the necklace of string o'er my head. I draw the cord down my hair while my lord watches in silence. When I pull at the purse's strings and have it open, I draw from it the length of twined hair in its coil. My aunt had wound about its ends threads of gold and they glow warmly in the flickering of firelight.

My lord studies it and then my face, for I hold it as were it the most precious of things. He waits for explanation but does not demand it.

"I had a sister, my lord. She was my elder," I say and then halt. No matter my lord might command me to continue, I can say no more. Even now, after all this time, tears threaten and stop my voice.

"Your father would oft speak of her. It seems there were few whose hearts she did not touch," he says softly. "I have heard tales, too, of her passing. 'Tis said your grief for her was so great you would suffer none other to lay her to rest, no matter who would have it otherwise."

I coil the length of hair upon itself and slip it back into its purse. My lord is silent, watching while I pull the cord over my head and clutch the bit of cloth to my breast. I match him in his silence. I cannot defy him, but greatly do I hope he will not ask me to speak of that time. I have neither the words nor the heart for it.

But then, of a sudden he lays the comb aside and rises, striding swiftly to a chest upon the opposite wall. There he rifles through his gear until he holds a pouch that must hang from his belt when he is about. He brings it with him when he returns to the bench and resumes his seat. The pouch is greatly worn and the thong that keeps it secure has been recently replaced. My lord's face betrays little when he opens it. It is a very small thing he withdraws from its depths. I cannot see it until he places it in my palm. There we look at it together.

A single hairpin lies in my hand, gleaming darkly. Air and damp long ago marred the shine of its silver surface. At its tip, where it would have nestled in my lord's mother's dark tresses, is fixed a teardrop of pearl that glows with the light of the hearth. I think it would have shown in her hair as a soft, small gem, a thing of simple beauty.

"She had many of these that my father gifted her, and she wore them in the last," he says, "but for this one."

He takes the small thing back from me, his fingers careful when they pluck it from my palm. "She was as wise as she was fair," he says, studying it. "I regret the loss of her counsel e'en now."

My lord's face is so filled with grief as he puts the pin back inside its pouch, my heart gives a startling thump in answer. With a barely heard sigh, he closes the pouch and smooths its leather flap in place as were the bag itself precious to him.

My lord lays the pouch aside and lifts his eyes to mine. His face is as resolute as at my first view of him standing afore his door and awaiting my arrival and, by this, I know the time has come.

The first touch of my lord's lips is unpracticed, slow and soft, almost were he discovering for himself the way of it. His hands remain in his lap, o'er which he leans. I know not what to do with my own but to clasp the bench, so I may not fall. When he breaks the kiss I must catch myself, for in seeking his lips I am unbalanced.

My lord's face is solemn and his hands gentle as he sweeps my hair from my face to lay its length upon my back. There he studies me, gauging my mood. The fine brush of his fingers makes me long to see him smile and feel his kiss again. Though willingly he bends to press his lips to mine, his face does not soften, and he does not smile. And yet, his hands come to grasp my shoulders and draw me near, and mine have found their way to his arms, to clasp cloth warmed by the flesh it covers.

My lord's breath plays upon my cheek where he rests his brow. I can do little but lean against him, for his fingers of one hand are deep in my hair and he pulls the cord that gathers the linen about my neck with the other. There the cloth falls to my shoulders. I had thought his look on me would make me wish to curl in upon myself, but it is not so. I wonder only what he will do next.

I am not disappointed, for my lord skims the tips of his fingers upon the skin of neck and shoulder he exposed, bemused, it seems, by its softness. Ah, his touch is as fire upon me. My hand has found my lord's knee. He does not protest, indeed, at the touch he gathers me to him, so he might press his lips against skin only his fingers have yet explored.

Almost chaste, his kisses seem; a mere brush of warmth from his lips and tickle from the graze of his beard that is gone as soon as it alights. His touch is unhurried, and he breathes deeply of the scent of lavender that rises from my skin where he has touched it. Incited by the sweetness of his lips, I weave my fingers into my lord's hair and push it aside. I wish to see his face and the mouth that teases my skin.

The tip of his nose presses against me and the lids of his eyes have fallen until all I can see is a faint glimmer beneath them. His look is more beautiful than I had had wit to imagine. The sight sends a thrill shivering down my limbs and I gasp. Ah! I did not know! Had I thought my heart could stand aside and be full only of duty? I am a fool! So warm and so sweet his lips as they slip across my skin. So hard and supple the muscles of his back and neck beneath my hand.

His hands had tightened upon me at the sound and my lord pauses to glance up at me. I know not what he saw, but his eyes seem to burn through to my very heart. With a swift breath, I turn to my lord, grabbing the thick cloth of his tunic as had I no intent of e'er turning him loose and pushing him upright. The kiss is deep, our lips open to each other so that, by chance, the very tip of my tongue brushes his. My lord startles with the contact, pulling away and regarding me with a stunned look. I am lightheaded and dumb, unable to speak. But it is not words my lord next requires of my lips, for when he lowers his head, he gives himself over to the sweetness of tasting my mouth as he kisses me, and I return the caresses with equal eagerness.

There we sway with the pressure of our kisses until my hands are wrapped in my lord's hair. The weight of his dark tresses is as silk as it runs through my fingers. Emboldened by the heat that rises from his breast, I pluck at my lord's lips with my own, drawing the tender flesh in, suckling upon it and playing upon it with my tongue. _Ai! _ His lips are as plums warmed by the late summer sun and I want only to suck out their sweetness and lap at the juice that may run down my chin. I want none of it to go to untasted.

Of a sudden, my lord's lips leave mine and he holds me away from him so that I may not follow. He speaks but few words, and that in a voice so low and thickened I hardly know what he says.

"Come with me."

And so I follow my lord up the stairs, his hand gently tugging on my fingers where I trail behind him.

Once we stand in the dim light of the solar, my lord seems intent upon putting me at ease, expecting to see the fruition of all my fears played out afore him. But when he would pull on the ties that close his long vest I do not wait for him. Aye, his look is not grim, nor does he speak of duty, nor sacrifice for the sake of defense against the Shadow. His face soft, he watches as I then brush his fingers away, and put my hands upon him, untying and parting and throwing aside.

My lord guarded against any pain he may cause me, until he himself was sunk so deep he could no longer attend to the effects of his fervor. But there was no need. For I have no hurt, no discomfort. I feel only pleasure and the warmth of skin on skin, and wonder at the tales my aunt told of blood and the need of forbearance. Mine is not the pain to be borne this night and, it seems, my lord had planned poor defense against it. For, even in the height of the pleasure he took, somewhat of grief and longing steals over his face. And when we lie drowsing and sated, he gently sees me comfortable, then turns away.

~oOo~

My lord left by the end of the week. For all that he had lain with me as does a groom with his bride, his farewell was swift.

He gave me little sign of his going, and yet, I knew, for his face had grown grim and his feet restless. No longer did he ride upon the lands of the Angle, for he had seen to what must be seen. No longer did his men attend upon him, for he had sent them across the Wild to see to what he could not. But it was not enough.

And so, he rose upon the morn and called me to him. There he stood afore our door, his pack at his feet and his kin caught up in a hard embrace.

"Ah, Halbarad," says he. "Be well."

"And you," is the reply, and Halbarad slaps his great hands upon my lord's back and his kin does the same.

My lord puts his kinsman from him, though not far. "Look for me, but not too soon."

At this Halbarad huffs a soft laugh and, with his hand upon his neck, pulls my lord's head to him until they are brow to brow. "As ever."

My lord smiles and buffets him upon his ear with his open hand. And with that Halbarad releases him and steps away, for it has come time for my lord to say his farewells to his wife. Still, though silent, Halbarad's eyes never leave his kin, and I marvel at the yearning kindled there, whether it be Halbarad would wish my lord to remain or he to go with him out into the broader lands of the Wild.

"Lady," says my lord and, taking my hand in his, bows gravely o'er it. "Keep well my House until my return. It is yours to do with as you see fit and make it prosper, as it e'er has been the right and responsibility of the lady of the House of my sires."

"Aye, my lord." I bow my head as deserves his command.

"Be well, lady," says he and releases my hand.

His feet are swiftly set to take him upon the path from our door when I step after him, calling out.

"My lord," I ask, "will you take no gift in farewell?"

My heart thuds loudly and it is a wonder I can hear above the noise. I know not what my lord shall think of this. But it is my duty as a woman of the Dúnedain, wedded as I am now to a Ranger who must travel far from his family's hearth, to give him the family's well-wishes to take with him. My lord goes I know not where and what dangers he faces I know not. No matter my timid heart, I would not send him away unblessed.

The face that turns upon me is dark with startlement, but, as I approach, his look softens and seems more grave and full of a kind pity.

"Aye, lady, I would gladly take your blessing," he says and stands as were he ready to submit to it. "But I am loath to take more than your words as gift."

It comes to me, then, my lord must have some regret at this leave-taking, for I hear the words he does not say. He speaks not of what little comfort he will provide in his absence. He speaks not of what shall be the loneliness of my days and the burden of care that wore down his own lady mother to her untimely end. But I would not have it said my lord gives naught in return, that he makes a poor husband, not when by his efforts is my home made safe and my days free of care but for the lack of his company.

"I have both words and gift to give, my lord," I say. "And both are mine for the offering."

At this, a gentle light gleams in his eyes. "Very well, lady, but I, too have the right of refusal."

"As is only just, my lord." With that I reach deep into my sleeve and withdraw what I had hidden there upon my dressing.

He takes it from me, and, at first, I think him puzzled, but quickly does understanding dawn upon him and his eyes rise to mine.

"I cannot take this, lady," he says and offers back the small, silver box I had placed in his hand. Bright is the morning light upon the vines and leaves that chase across its surface.

"Have you better, my lord?"

"Nay, lady, mine was lost to mischance, and so I have none at all."

"Then will you not take it?" When he yet hesitates, shaking his head, I go on. "You said, once, your mother would not care for her things to be idle, should there be need, my lord. I would think my father of a similar bent."

He considers this, his brow drawn and then sighs. "Very well, lady, I shall take it." He brings it to his breast, his face solemn, and bows in salute to me. "I shall be honored to carry it, then, as I was honored by him whose once this was."

Sternly I call myself to task, for my lord's words do lodge most piteously within my breast, even more so for the rumor I have heard of how my father met his end.

"Then, my lord," I say to the dark crown of his head, "hear you this blessing and may its words carry you through times when you are troubled. _May thy feet find their way sure though the path be unknown. May thy heart speak ever true though the way be dark. May thine enemies' sight be clouded by doubt and fear. May the Valar stay the hand of those who might strike at thee. And may they see thee safely home."_

And with that, my lord left, and his kin ushered me back into his house.

~oOo~

AN: The explicit version of this chapter is posted to . My pen name is the same there.


	14. Chapter 13

~ Chapter 13 ~

_Nay, cousin! they are not boys,' said Ioreth to her kinswoman from Imloth Melui, who stood beside her. 'Those are Periain, out of the far country of the Halflings, where they are princes of great fame, it is said. I should know, for I had one to tend in the Houses. They are small, but they are valiant. Why, cousin, one of them went with only his esquire into the Black Country and fought with the Dark Lord all by himself, and set fire to his Tower, if you can believe it. At least that is the tale in the City._

ROTK: The Steward and the King

~oOo~

_~ TA 3007, 18th day of Urimë: One pledgeholder holds the oath of ten fires of the Angle and answers to his Elder. Six Elders sit upon the Angle's council, each man with one vote. So, too, sits the House of Isildur upon the Council. Should the Angle be made of 100 holdings of one- virgate each and upon it stand no more than house and shed, the House earns one vote upon the concerns brought to the Council and is owed 1 portion out of 16 of yield from each holding in tithe. Should the Angle increase in fires and structures built upon it, both tithe and vote owed the House increases by no less than 1 portion of 100, so that the Lord of the Dúnedain may feed and outfit his Rangers, give support to their families, and plan for the well-being and defense of his folk. _

~oOo~

"Aye, the sun shines bright and rain falls from the sky. This is news?"

Elder Maurus' voice rises in an angry quaver into the tall rafters of my lord's hall and the Angle's Elders fall silent. Where once men argued and leaned across the table as were their words held back simply by the edge of the wood against which they pressed, now they look away. They forget their disagreements in faces that hide their impatience out of an old respect for the man.

I feared I would be hard-pressed to find work for the hall that would require my presence there, yet not be so loud as to earn my dismissal when the Elders came to sit about my lord's table. But it is my luck I have chosen a dish for our midday meal that requires the grinding of several spices and the fine chopping of pungent roots, onions, and garlic. A skinned and gutted hare lies upon its board and I kneel at the hearth afore a shallow, wooden bowl, slicing the onions.

"But today's fair weather is as easily tomorrow's flood. Last week's rain is this summer's drought," the Elder goes on. "Come time for the harvest we will like as not have to eat of air and mud than the grain of our fields. You would but wear out your mattocks upon the rocks and weary the oxen that pull the ploughs. Is not our labor burden enough, already?"

Halbarad releases a restrained breath and scrubs at the back of his head. He sits in our lord's place and no doubt, at this moment, wishes he did not.

"Come now, Maurus," an Elder soothes while the rest of the Council shifts restively in their seats. It is Tanaes, the butcher. In the few councils I have seen, it is only he who dares interrupt the old man, though even now he does so wearily. "What else would you have us do, sit in our halls and watch our families hunger simply because we did not wish to put forth the effort of feeding them?"

"Ah!" the old man lets loose with a wave of his thickened fingers as were we all foolish children. "Go ahead, will you, then! Plough your lands, increase the fields, it will all come to naught."

Only silence answers Elder Maurus' dismissal. The glances shared across the table seem uncertain. Where were they in their contentions o'er the extra burden upon men and tools and the days? Master Bachor rubs mightily at his brow with a sour look.

Mayhap the onion would surrender to my knife with more grace should I not grip it so tightly.

"Very well," says the butcher and he shakes his head clear of the confused thoughts the Elder's words inspired. "Are we agreed, then?" And it seems they are, for nods and shrugs greet the butcher's question. "One hundred acres more, then, to be assarted this season?" he asks and looks about the table for confirmation, and he has it.

"Be that settled," comes Halbarad's deep voice, "mayhap we can go on to your next concern."

The men shift and mutter among themselves, the Elder's watery eyes peering at one then another o'er the rim of his cup. He sips at the tea of sweet birch I brewed for him. He had been polite enough in the request and deigned even to thank me for the warmth of it when I set it afore him. There he wraps his old joints about the heated clay and snuffles its steam as were he glad of it. My lord seems to place much esteem upon his thoughts, but I confess I cannot comprehend the man.

Well, no matter, the Elders had at first seemed poised on tearing the idea asunder with their worries for man and beast, yet still make no mention of the fact of the increase in power of the House that surely sways their thoughts on the matter afore them. But, at the last, the Angle shall break new ground and plant new fields. Mayhap we may have a chance of feeding all its people, new and old. I may now release my breath and squeeze my eyes shut against the burning of fumes from the onions I chop into a paste. The pot is hot and the fat I drop inside sizzles and melts quickly.

"Aye," I hear and a look to the table reveals the butcher speaking again. "There is always the problem of our wandering folk."

"Have yet more arrived?"

"Aye, two presented their pleas yestereve," I hear said in Elder Maurus' voice, "and that makes six in this week alone. Valar knows how many more shall be shadowing my door upon my return."

"Aye, they come with the weather, the poor wretches. How some of them made it through the winter is a wonder. I say they are here and welcome."

"I doubt not the peril to our folk from outside the Angle is great and I do not regret that we bend our backs in heavy labor this spring for their good, but we cannot take them all," I hear said. No glance tells me of the speaker, but I need none. 'Tis Master Bachor.

With a grimace I scrape the paste of onion and garlic into the pot, where it sputters in the grease loudly and releases a pungent cloud.

"Wastrels, the lot of them!" Elder Maurus lets loose with the thud of his cane upon the floor.

"My lady."

"My pardon, Ranger Halbarad," I say, for the man has raised his eyes from the Council to me. The look is oddly mild for the censure of his words.

I stir the contents of the pot and hope to make to simmer more gently, waiting for the onion and garlic to brown so I might next add the ground spices.

"Did we not just not agree to put them to working the fields?" Halbarad asks and the men turn away, seeming to forget me and my interruption.

"Aye, but who shall ask it of them?"

"I shall!" says Halbarad and that seems to end the debate, for the men look one to the other without further comment. Even Master Maurus seems to have reached his fill, for he drains his cup and slowly wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. I have but the time to see his hand tremor when Halbarad speaks again. "Very well, gentlemen, should there be naught else, shall we call this Council concluded?"

The Council nods and offers no contest.

"Bid you good day, then," Halbarad says. He rises and so do they, taking canes and packs with them.

Master Bachor is the first to pass afore the hearth by which I kneel. True it is he attempts to catch my eye to make his farewells as he passes, even as he had attempted to give me greeting when first he entered my lord's hall. True it is, too, he is dark of hair and eye, skin the color of a soft bronze, tall and comely of make, with his curls brushed back from his brow and arrayed about his shoulders, and so is not lacking for the attention he receives from the Angle's women, but I will have none of it. I make much work of taking a great knife to hack at the hare upon its board until he falters no longer, and is gone.

Elder Tanaes, the last to leave for his quiet speech with Halbarad, now nods to where I have carved the hare into joints the better to fit into the pot. He winks and bids me good day.

"That one gave me trouble, my lady," says the man, indicating the hare. "Came near to chewing through the trap, he did, and I tramped half to the Road ere I could get him."

"I will have to watch the pot closely, then, Elder Tanaes," I reply, smiling up at the man, "and be sure he not attempt a second escape."

He chuckles, his eyes bright above his red cheeks. Halbarad stands beside me when I lay the joints of meat upon the onions. He sniffs at the steam billowing from the pot.

"Shall we see you at the market tomorrow, then?" the butcher asks Halbarad as the other Elders slip from the hall.

"Aye, upon the morrow."

"Bid you good day, my lady." A nod from Tanaes, and then he, too, is gone.

Halbarad draws in a long breath as were he glad of free and open air, interrupted only by the slight smile that he returns when he finds me looking at him. No doubt my relief is as easily read.

"Bid the House good day," I hear and Mistress Pelara bustles in through the door.

It is only then I recall her father has not yet left us and I start with guilty surprise. He grunts a brief greeting from where he sits at the table and Halbarad bows.

"Bid you good day, Mistress," I say and drop the lid upon the pot and quickly dip my hands into the cleansing bowl.

To my eye, the Elder seems strangely drained of color. I am not alone in my surmise, for Pelara's look upon her father quickens her steps to him.

"Father," she says, laying a hand upon his shoulder. "Are you ill?"

"Ah, Daughter," he says. He pushes the empty cup away from him and takes up his cane. "None of your clucking, now." With a grunt, he pushes himself from the bench. Despite his complaint, he does not resist the strong arm of his daughter drawing him to his feet.

"All is well. All is well," he says when he catches sight of my anxious look. "I am but eager for my bed."

"Aye, Father, I will take you to it," says Pelara and she nods her farewell. "Bid you good day, my lady, Ranger Halbarad."

Halbarad and I reply in turn and they shuffle to the door across the stone. The grim and thought-filled look Halbarad gives their backs gives me pause and I wonder what the Ranger regrets.

"Shall you not give the House of Isildur your well wishes ere you leave, Father? You have been their guest all this morning," comes the mistress' chiding voice ere they cross beneath the lintel of the door.

"Bah!" I hear. "They have had good fortune of mine enough, today, Daughter."

At that, Halbarad snorts and his face lightens. He then takes up his next task. And, to my surprise, I hear his humming.

~oOo~

So thin is the linen the shadow of my fingers shows darkly beneath it. Mistress Tanril brought the best of her needles with her. She it is the wife of the Angle's smith and skilled in the make of the finer works of metal. She passed them about in their small round case of bone, made of a good steel, finely polished, and the largest no thicker than the thin leaves of a pine tree. Straight and true and smooth, they dart upon the linen as so many winged things that fly o'er the river. Indeed, they excited much comment among the women, here as we gather about a stretched frame of cloth in Elder Maurus' hall.

"Oh!" we had exclaimed, passing them one to another, our fingers lingering upon the cool metal and testing the filed points against the tips. Some shook their heads, exclaiming at the cleverness of Mistress Tanril and her explaining the art of extruding metals and taking hammer, file and punch to them. Glad was I to come upon them, for I think I know now how I shall tailor the fine cloth of the Elves while leaving little mark. I have but to discern Mistress Tanril's desires and thus make some of these my own. I have great plans for the Lady Gilraen's dresses, though I doubt she should recognize them when I am done.

The man of the house, himself, is absent, having greatly recovered from the council meeting of weeks past. He greeted each of us warmly as we entered, though with little ear for what we said in return among the happy crowd. Instead, he beamed smugly up at us from his table, well pleased, it seemed, the last of his daughter's children should be preparing to leave their house and build her own family.

We gathered there, a dozen or more, sitting upon benches and pressing the bride to speak of what work to which she would have us take our hands. Once we took to exclaiming o'er the fine silk thread her mother passed among us, he rose and took up his stick.

"Ah, well now, should we come to the tale of laces and threads, I think I shall take my leave," the Elder says as he hobbles from behind his table. He presses a kiss to the cheek of his grandchild, who smiles up at him. "Such talk is sure to bewilder my aged head."

She laughs. "Surely not, grandsire. I know of naught shall cloud your thinking."

Mistress Pelara, from where she stands o'er us, adds, "Or, Valar forbid, still your tongue."

"Eh," he grunts, and I marvel at his deaf ears that they should hear what was spoken across the room. But then he turns his light, watery eyes upon his daughter's child as had naught been said. "Be that as it may, child, I shall leave you to your preparations. Other things call me away and, soon, you shall not wish me here."

At this, she blushes and beams, and he pats his stiff fingers upon her upturned cheek. And, with that, he plunks his cap upon the scarce locks covering his pate, nods to us all, bids his daughter not delay his tea unnecessarily with our women's gossip, and todders out the open door.

"Aye, now, Nesta," says Mistress Pelara. "Will you not close the door? We need no small ears to overhear our speech."

The women chuckle and set themselves to their places. The thread has now been passed to my hand where I sit among them, and I pull a cord from the cone of wound fibers. Soon the door is closed, and we bend our heads in a circle o'er the linen. There grows a field of branches, flowers, and vines delicately across its white expanse, for we put our hands to the cloth the bride shall use in the naming of the children yet hoped for. A bud of hawthorn blooms slowly beneath my fingers, for we have been allowed the free range of our own thoughts, each to contribute to the whole. I wish to call the promise of spring to mind, of fertile ground and the unfolding of life.

The needle issues forth from the cloth as it were a blade of grass rising swiftly from newly warm soil and I must remind myself to gentle my hand. For, so fine is it, the slightest of tugs pulls the thread attached to it from beneath the cloth and too coarse a hand will pull too tightly upon the weave. The thread is of a tight twist and I roll the needle between fingers and thumb to free its tangle, so it will not knot and frustrate my efforts upon my next stitch. True it is consuming work, but, though our hands and eyes be much busy, it is not to say it leaves not our tongues free to wag.

"And now, Daughter," says Mistress Pelara, settling herself down and taking up her needle. Her eyes twinkle with anticipated merriment. This is her first hosting of such a gathering, being the mother of more sons than daughters, and greatly is she enjoying her part in it.

There is not a girl of the Angle who does not know the bare facts of a marriage bed. But, 'tis true, this leaves a wide field unploughed that yet could bear fruit. I know not what to think shall come. True my sister had not been shy of sharing more of her husband's attributes and tastes than he might wish, and gave me much advice I had not asked for, but, in my groom's haste, I had had no time for such a gathering of married women.

"And what would you ask of us?" the mistress of the house asks her daughter. The bride sits now, not far from my right hand, plying her needle to the cloth. It seems to take all her efforts, for she does not lift her eyes nor speak. Still, clear it is she but hides her smiles by bending the more closely to her work.

"Come, girl," says Mistress Nesta from about the bit of thread she breaks with her teeth. She butts her shoulder upon the girl from where she is seated next to her. "No need of shyness, 'twill serve ye no good come your wedding night."

The bride blushes a deep red, but the questions crowd behind the swift glances she sets upon us.

"Is it true, then, what the men say?" she asks after some hesitance, her gaze unable to settle upon one or the other of us. "'Tis true a woman will not conceive of a child should she not have her own pleasure of the act?"

Mayhap the women have their own opinions of this, but, as one we look to Mistress Nesta over our handwork, healer to the Angle and best able, it seems, to answer with some authority.

"Och!" the healer says and leaves off her attempts to thread her needle. "Why shall you all stare at me so? How should I know of such things? It is not as were it to make a difference in the birthing of them."

We smile, some more knowingly than others, and she clucks her tongue at us, but 'tis Mistress Tanril who takes pity on the girl and attempts an answer to her question. Her look is wry. "I know not, girl, but, true or not, mayhap you could do us all a kindness and refrain from disabusing them of the notion."

"Aye, well, they say it not so much as when the girl was not willing."

"It matters not. They'd say aught should it wash their hands of the matter."

"True that is," interrupts Mistress Pelara firmly, for her daughter's eyes have grown wide and the company about her grim. "And a worthy debate it is. But not today, I pray you."

At that we look back to our work and silence falls among us broken only by the soft sounds of the slip and tug of thread. Not a promising beginning, I deem, but wrack my thoughts as I might, I cannot bring to mind aught that might return the company to its prior comfort.

"Ah, well, dear child. It matters not," says Mistress Nesta. She has abandoned her attempts and leans against the young bride who has taken pity on her and expertly puts thread to needle. "Should your young husband not know enough on the matter, you send him to me. I'll have a thing or two to tell him of pleasures of a woman's bed to set him straight, I shall."

This sets the women to hooting and laughing o'er their work, and Mistress Pelara, of whom naught I know would silence her tongue, to deeply reddening.

The bride throws her arms about Mistress Nesta and kisses her upon her pinking cheek. "You would do that for me, auntie?"

"Oh, aye, and more, too, should ye like." She pats upon the bride's arm.

"Would on the morrow be too soon?" She blinks prettily at the woman.

"Och, give the poor lad a chance first, eh?" She goes on when the bride pouts at her, "Now, girl. Be not afraid to put his hands or aught else of him where you like it, and all will be well."

"Aye! Well! I know what my husband likes," Mistress Tanril begins, though her thin hands are more readily put to fine metalwork, they are nimble with the thread as well. Besides her sits a sturdy woman I know not with brown hair who has smiled much during our talk but spoken little.

"Quiet, you! The whole Angle knows what your husband likes, so oft you tell the tale. I would hear more of what Nesta would say."

"Nay, we should ask Pelara of our dear healer's skills on the matter, were we to get the truth of it."

"Now look you here!" The mistress of the house gives the company a vexed look and jabs her finger at us, tied though it is by a fine thread to the fabric beneath it. "'Tis not what happens in my bed, marriage or otherwise, that is under discussion. You will behave yourselves or I will turn the lot of you from my house."

This seems to have little effect, for next I hear whispered loudly, "Shame on you, Berel, now you have upended the cart."

"Ah! Why do you flog at me so?"

"You've upset Pelara and what shall we do for her excellent ale? She'll not serve it now, surely."

Fingers yet tug at thin lines of thread though the women laugh and shush her.

Throughout this, the young bride has been giggling and her mother hard put to place one stitch upon our work for the vexed looks she turns to her guests. But the girl's look is the more easy for it. With that, her questions come more quickly and we, the married women of her kin and friends, are set to answering them.

So the morning wears away and it seems my face heats more oft than the bride. For the women's tongues are free. I learn more in one morning of putting needle to thread among the women than I have for the weeks I slept beside my lord. I only wonder should men's speech be so bawdy when away, and what my lord shall now learn should he chance to be among them.

"Ah, you have naught of skill, Berel. Ye grab at it as ye were churning butter and 'tis no wonder your husband not take to it. 'Tis not made of wood."

"Och! I'll take kindly to you not churning my butter with your teeth."

"'Tis not the teeth ye use, ye daft cow."

"I do not mind a bit of teeth, should he use them aright."

"Listen you, I have told ye afore, go at him 'til he can take no more, then grab him about the root and he will settle down as nice as you please. Keep at it for a pace ere you have mercy on him and he will follow ye around like that moon-eyed calf of yours."

"Not like that, Berel! Ye will wring the top of him off at that rate. Give that to me!"

"Aye, aye, but how do you keep him from knocking ye off and taking matters into his own hands?"

"Should all his blood be in his nethers –" says Mistress Berel.

"Then he ne'er have blood for his head!" comes the cry from the women in return.

"Aye, my girl, mayhap you should leave that for later," a voice calls through our laughter. "Give your poor lad a chance to trust you not do him an injury first. I shall have aught to say that may prove the more timely for you."

The bride shifts uncomfortably. 'Tis her mother who speaks, for it is her turn.

"Nay, girl, I shall bring no shame upon you. You remember not much of your father, I should think."

The girl's face is stiff, and she looks upon her mother through the corner of her eyes, as were she fearful of having been caught out, but Pelara does not seem have seen it.

"You know your father was much gone in the service of our lord, as are many still of those among us."

The women's eyes upon her are knowing, for, though Pelara's eldest now runs the ovens her father once manned, among them are her friends and it is a Ranger's home they keep.

"I have little to tell you to give you comfort when the watches of your nights are at their longest and bitterest but that your kin you shall ever have beside you." "Now, Daughter," she says, for the girl's eyes mist with swiftly welling tears. With a quick cluck of her tongue, the mistress gathers the bride upon her shoulder, patting the girl's back. "Think not on it, my girl. Aye, 'tis true, I shall miss your father 'til the day I join him beyond the Circles of this World. And, 'tis true, I spent many of our days together regretting his absence even then, but you may yet find some small recompense for the days of your waiting."

Here the girl smiles behind her tears, wiping them away as she giggles. Her mother looks on at a loss.

"And why are you laughing, my girl, eh?"

"Aye, _Nana_," she says and melts against her mother's side, smiling charmingly upon her. "We knew your welcome home of our father came first ere ours. And he would be none so kind should we delay it."

"Aye, well," Mistress Pelara says, seemingly a little mollified. "I suppose we were not so careful in our eagerness as we should." When the girl's smile turns to mischief, her mother makes a noise of irritation and amusement mixed. "Aye, hunger is the best sauce, my girl, and there is no breaking of the fast as when they have been away and cannot eat when e'er the whim takes them. And you I wish the joy of many a long-awaited return," and here the Mistress pauses to place a loud kiss upon her daughter's cheek, "be he swift or slow in the taking of it."

"Aye, _Nana._"

They end their embrace with a clout upon the girl's backside, though she might grin through her startlement. "And that for sticking your nose in where it did not belong, though long delayed was the chastening."

With that, Mistress Pelara rises and lays aside her needle and thread. "'Tis time for somewhat of drink and food, I think. And aye, ye shall get your ale." I think her done and we shall turn to the next to speak, but as she passes behind our healer, she lays a great smack upon the woman's thigh.

"Och!" cries Mistress Nesta, startled into dropping her needle.

"That is for telling tales of our private matters to the whole of the Angle," says Mistress Pelara.

"I did no such!" protests the healer to her back and then huffs, for the mistress has left the hall, gone to the family's inner rooms where I think the buttery and fire must be. With the mistress gone here the women look to me, for, true it is, I sit the nearest to her abandoned seat.

_Ai! Have mercy, Yavanna, Queen of all new life! _What have I to tell the bride? I know not what my lord desires and little of how he might fulfill my own!

Ah, but I see the small secret smiles and know what they think. Aye, 'tis true, 'twas I who kissed my lord ere he had the chance upon our wedding night and, 'tis true, 'twas a full fortnight ere I was seen by any of the folk of the Angle after it. But they know little of what filled that time. Most oft, I watched the man sleep the grey and heavy slumber of the near-dead and prayed to whatever Vala may have pity upon us that he might yet live.

Of a sudden, the room is over-warm. I am hot from the very tips of toes to hair. My thoughts fly about in my head so that I despair of having aught to say. _Ai!_ He is their lord and chieftain, what could I say would not belittle him, reduce him from his noble state and make of him no more than a man?

"I shall not mind should you not have aught you would tell, my lady," I hear and look up of a sudden to find the young bride with her gaze upon me and her eyes filled with naught but kindness.

Then do my thoughts calm and my heart warms to her. I take her hand and move along the bench, so I might be near. Well I remember that night. I had been warned of pain that might come, but had felt none, and found my lord an attentive lover, albeit a cautious one. In only one thing had he truly surprised me. Ever since, I cannot think of it without it giving pause to my thoughts and stillness to my hands. And so, I lean close to the girl's ear so none other may hear. I have but one thing to say, but the words are enough, I think, for when I am done the bride blushes as near as bright as the smile she turns to me.

"Aye, my lady, I shall remember it," says she and her eyes seem to glow, so bright is the warmth that lights them.

I have done, and, releasing the girl's hand, rise to follow her mother, for I would be away from the eyes that look upon me curiously and the voices that all but press the girl to speak.

I find the Mistress coming from the buttery into the greater hall. I had ne'er been invited to enter the family's rooms and knew not what lay behind their door. The hall is cozy for the well-lived wood of table and benches, chests and stools. About are strewn toys and a grey cat lazes upon the stones about the hearth, naught but the tip of its tail stirring as it regards me beneath its slitted gold eyes.

The Mistress looks upon me with but brief surprise, for her arms are laden with pitchers and I go swiftly to her to relief her of much of her burden. She seems none too troubled by the events she left behind and was indeed humming brightly to herself afore the interruption.

"Ah, bless you, my lady," she says, and we set all upon the hall's table, where she has set out cups of horn and trays of beaten metal, there to make them ready.

"Are these of Master Mahtan's make?" I ask, my fingers lingering upon the working of horse and rider upon the copper rim.

"Aye," the Mistress answers from the hearth, where a sweet steam seeps from beneath an overturned cauldron. "'Tis a shame he has not time for such work these days."

"Aye, indeed."

Most oft, the smith would have had a seat upon the Angle's council, so it has been from father to son for more years than the eldest among us can remember. But in these times where the Angle seems nigh to bursting at the seams, the man is so hard pressed he sallies forth not from his forge, nor lets his kin wander far. Indeed, I had wondered at his wife's attendance at the gathering of women.

I bring the tray to the hearth, for the Mistress has pulled the pot from where it rests, and it releases the strong scent of honey, fruit and a fresh cheese.

"How comes your efforts, Mistress?"

"Aye, well, my lady."

With but the tips of her fingers, Pelara plucks the pastries from their oven and sets them upon the tray. She has made delicate cakes of a jellied pear and cream and the smell, so close is the scent, sets my mouth to watering.

"My father goes to speak with Elder Tanaes e'en now." She smiles ere returning her attention to her task. "To complain of the lack of venison in his stall and the boisterousness of the young men among the wanderers, who, like as not, lack healthy occupation for their youthful energies."

"Shall we need more smokehouses, do you think, Mistress?"

She makes a small sound of response, dropping a cake swiftly upon the platter for its heat.

"And wood to fill them." She rises from the hearth, for the tray is now full.

I sigh, for Master Bachor most like has the needed salt in his great sheds. There is not a need in the Angle he has not anticipated, I would wager. It takes but the naming of his price. I can only hope it not too dear. But I know not at all how we shall get the Council to agree to parceling out the work that must be done. For Halbarad was not in attendance at their last meeting and their arguments reached a fevered pitch, none among them resolved.

"Aye, well, Mistress, would we had the ear of the wanderers, for they have none taken up the pledge and none claim the right of their work."

I take the pastries to the table where Pelara piles the cups upon another tray. I must lay my burden down, for the metal grows hot from the cakes.

"My lord's reeve cannot call upon every new house in the Angle and put them to work each morning," say I. "And should we call all wanderers to be so sworn at one time, I think the Angle just might take up arms against the House of Isildur, so frightened would they be."

"Now, my lady, mayhap one day they shall, but not today. And I think we may yet have the ear of those who have fled to the Angle, some few at least, to start, but carefully chosen."

"See you here," she says and, of a sudden, sets down the cups she was gathering. She leads me to the door and pushes it ajar. "The woman of the light hair." Here she nods through the sliver of light. Through it I see the women bending their heads above their work. A quiet has now descended upon them and their hands are busy. There I see the woman of the brown hair and rugged features who sits beside Mistress Tanril.

"You know her not, I take it."

"Nay," I say and peer more closely through the door. "I have not seen her ere today, even."

"Her name is Linmir. Wife she is to a man of the homesteaders of the _Bavrodhrim_. They are but newly come to the Angle and sought out my father just yester-morn to beg his consent. Her husband, my lady, worked iron for their homestead. And, now the village is nigh to abandoned, he is here and brings his family. And with them he brings his tools." Her eyes glitter sharply above a smile that is near to smug.

I laugh softly and let the door fall closed. "I see you have sat the two smith's wives together, then, Mistress."

"Aye, only kind. For I deem they will have much in common of which to speak. None too certain they were for their entry here. Stories run wild out upon our old lands with none now to counter them, now it seems our Rangers are much occupied elsewhere, and I would have our new folk given good welcome."

With this, we withdraw from the door.

It is a good thing, I think, Mistress Pelara was so kind as to take to me. I have told her naught of what I overheard of the movements of our lord's men, yet not only has she had word of them, but she has anticipated its effects and works to lessen their impact even now. Should she have set herself against me, I doubt I would have found aught of being my lord's wife to enjoy.

~oOo~


	15. Chapter 14

~ Chapter 14 ~

_'They will come on you in the wild, in some dark place where there is no help. Do you wish them to find you? They are terrible!'_

FOTR: Strider

~oOo~

_~ TA 3007, 20th day of Yavannië: charges – one hood of thick woad-blue wool, worked about its edges with designs of hares, foxes, and vines in cream, onion skin-red, and heather-green wool thread. Discharges – in return for three fine needles of extruded and filed steel from Mistress Tanril. _

~oOo~

The men stride slowly in from the fields, bent double beneath their load. The soft sun of spring is gone, and we come to days of the harvest. Bearing sheaves of spring wheat upon their back, a bundle near thrice their size, so heavy is the load the men sweat and grasp tightly to the ropes, forgetting all speech in their effort. But the boys who accompany them are more free of foot and tongue. They skip between their elders, pouncing upon dropped straws and heads of wheat and pile them in each other's arms and into baskets they carry lightly. The sheaves glow warmly in the autumn sun as they sink and rise with the fall of their bearer's feet. We have been gifted with dry weather and a strong breeze, and the folk of the Angle await them on the threshing-floor.

In the dim light ere dawn, I awoke to the bleating of sheep upon the meadow, their calls echoing among the shallow vales and hills where they graze. The hollow cry of doves came from the thatch above my head and called the dawn. Already the day was warm though the sun not yet truly risen. I had kicked away the sheets in my sleep and lay in a tangle of my shift upon waking and knew then the wheat would be shrunk and brittle to the hand, ready for the winnowing.

We are well into the day and upon the threshing-floor the men beat upon a thick carpet of stalks. In a line upon the hardened clay, they chant and swing the flails over their head, their hands and arms moving to the beat of the harvest. Soon, with their long winnow-forks they will throw the wheat to the air and the wind shall blow away a great glittering cloud of chaff.

I stand with the other women of the Angle, we with our flat baskets and the last of the winnowing to do. It is easiest, I think, to toss the mix of fine fiber and seed and catch it with the rhythm of the threshers. Oh, we sing and the sight of golden dust when we toss it to the air and the tickle of wheat berries when we plunge our hands in the basket are things of joy. But the sun beating upon the head, the itch of dust upon sweaty skin, and the closed in breath behind a scarf are most decidedly not.

I am no stranger to the harvest, and think I shall ever know it, even to the days when I sit with the granddams and pluck dirt and stones from the berries ere sending an infant child to pour them into the granary baskets. Once, I dreaded the task and the days it would take me away from my loom and dye-pots. But the Council has decreed the tilling of a hundred acres more. The blessings of the Valar lie heavy upon us and the fields yield at their fullest measure. The Angle needs all of its hands at work, and I am determined to ask naught of them I am not cheerful to give.

Up goes the grain with a flick of the wrist and it seems to hang in the air ere rattling back down into the basket, leaving behind fine shreds of stalk and leaf to float to the ground. And again. And yet again.

Ah! But I itch! I shall be glad when the sun hovers o'er the winding path of the Tithecelon and stains the sky in pinks and greens, for then the women walk to the river to bathe. How many more days of this until we are done, and the midsummer harvest feast can begin? _Ai!_ Shall we have enough days of sun? The Valar have looked upon us kindly thus far, mayhap they shall smile just a little longer, for should it rain all the grain left in the field will be consumed by rot and mold, not by the folk of the Angle.

"My lady!"

With a quick movement I catch the grain. There, I see her, Mistress Pelara stands upwind of the winnowers, behind the bent heads of old women sifting through the seed. Upon her hip rests a small mite of a girl, her youngest grandchild, with thin curls and wide eyes so dark a blue they seem as the twilight sky of summer just ere the first star appears.

With a few tosses more, I am done and am happy to trade a full for empty basket with one of my elders. Pulling the scarf from my face, I wipe at my brow and draw in a deep breath of free air.

"And who have we here?" I ask, smiling upon the child in Pelara's arms. She lays her head upon her grandmother's cheek and watches me from the shadow of the woman's chin.

"This, my lady, is Lothel," Mistress Pelara says, "who grows hungry and soon shall be none so pleasant. Best enjoy her now."

I laugh. "Did you come to show her off while you had the chance, then?"

"No, my lady, I have a thing you must see and hear of your own."

"Very well," I say, and look about for a spot to set my basket down where it shall not be trampled or misplaced. I shall wish to pick it up again later.

"Here, my lady, let me take that for you," Mistress Pelara says and dumps Lothel into my arms as were she no more precious than a sack of turnips while she plucks the basket from my hand. There the small arm curls tightly about mine and I bounce her to settle the weight on my hip.

Mistress Pelara calls to the child's mother and strides off into the mess of falling grain and flying straw.

The girl plucks at my scarf with sticky fingers, but I mind not. Her weight is warm and heavy in my arms and her brow bumps against my chin. I wish most to kiss her skin, for it is softer than the finest velvet of my lord mother's elven dresses. I cannot. She is not mine to press my affections upon her, but I allow myself the guilty pleasure of breathing deep of her scent. She smells of milk and a mild soap of lavender.

"Come, take your daughter," Mistress Pelara says to the tall, willowy woman who follows her carrying both her own empty basket and mine. The child has her mother's eyes. "The lady and I have an errand to run."

"Shall you be back?" her eldest son's wife asks and then nods her greeting to me. "My lady."

"_Nana!"_ Lothel cries, her voice rising in newfound distress and her arms outstretched to her mother as she leans out over my hold.

"Ah, time to leave, then," Mistress Pelara says as I surrender the girl to her mother. "Aye, we shall be back in but a little while, enough to feed the child and get you some rest. Go find you some shade, girl."

"Aye, _Naneth_," she says and then croons to her daughter, soothing the laughter that teeters upon a needle edge between distress and relief.

"A good girl, that," Pelara says. "I could have asked for none better for my son."

"My lady," she says, and I shake myself away from watching her son's wife and child, the woman's hips swaying gently as she carries her daughter away from the crowd.

"Aye, I am ready, let us go."

~oOo~

The Elder sits upon a bench by his door with a man of equal age. There together they rest against the white daub wall and bake themselves in its reflected heat with their canes resting upon their knees. With their bald pates and half-lidded eyes, they look like naught less than two lizards sunning themselves and blinking slowly in the late afternoon glare.

His daughter pins a leery eye upon her father as we approach. But for the nudge his friend gives him, we might have passed by without his notice. The Elder blinks awake.

"Eh, what?" he protests and when the old man beside him nods toward us, he turns his scowl to his daughter and me.

"Oh, greetings Daughter," he says and clears his throat wetly. "I see you have returned."

"Aye, that I have, Father," she says with equal delight.

"My lady," says his friend and he touches a dry knuckle to his brow, and I nod in response.

"You are come from the threshing floor, my lady?" the Elder asks, sheltering his watery eyes from the glare with his hand.

"Aye, Master Maurus," I say, nodding broadly and pause, though Mistress Pelara stands in the shadow of the doorway as were she eager to enter and be away from her father.

"It goes well, eh?" he asks but then goes on had he no thought for my answer, "Valar help us, should it last." He then scowls at his daughter, whose look has soured. "And when shall my tea be ready then, eh, Daughter?"

"When it is ready and not a moment sooner, Father," she says. "It is not time for tea, yet. You must suffer through yet a few more hours of this fine sun, should it last so long."

He grunts discontentedly and then settles back, closing his eyes.

With a touch to my elbow she pulls me firmly through the door, cutting off her father's voice. And with a shake of the head and a determined look, she advises me to give no thought to her father's grumbling.

My eyes are near blind in the dimness that is the Elder's room, but I soon make out his table and a man I know not sitting beside it. Mistress Nesta wraps strips of linen about his arm where she has spread a poultice upon torn and deeply bruised flesh. He bolts to his feet at our entrance, tugging at the healer's hand.

"Here, now!" Nesta protests and struggles to keep the cloth from unwinding about him.

His grey eyes flicker between Pelara and I. I know not what he sees in the mistress' eyes, but it must be some confirmation of his thoughts for, of a sudden, he falls prostrate upon the ground afore me, pulling the two young lads who crowded wide-eyed and silent about him down with him. An older woman, her face lined and grim, sits by the door with her granddaughter, a girl of mayhap twenty some years. Rising slowly, the old woman shuffles down to kneel beside them. Her face she hides deep in her thickly-knuckled hands. The girl comes next to her and, clinging to her shoulder and mutely weeps.

"We beg of you, my lady," the man says, his voice muffled against the floor. "Pray do not turn us away. There is no other place we may go. Or should you send us hence but give us word and we will leave and not protest it should you let us go free."

The healer, giving up on binding her charges' wounds, sits back with a huff and shakes her head sadly at them.

I stand as one stunned, so shocked am I. I know not what to do, but I think I shall be sick should he not rise and stand upon his own feet. I know Mistress Pelara is as surprised, but it is she, after a glance to my own face, who springs into action.

"Up," she says, going down and tugging at the man's shoulder. "Get up, now!" she commands, and he blinks at her and climbs unsteadily to his feet. The two boys cling to the hands that hang heavily from his shoulders. "Are you not a dúnadan of the North? You may owe your fealty to our lord, but not your pride, man. "

I had not the chance to look fully upon him, but I do so now. His hair a brown so light 'tis seldom seen so far north, it marks him a man of the homesteads of the _Bavrodhrim. _He is much battered and neglected, with bruises and deep scratches upon his person, and a body so shrunken I could count each rib should I have a mind.

He looks down, away from my gaze.

"What is your name?" I ask.

"Sereg, son of Seregil, my lady."

"What happened to you?"

"They were attacked by wolves," answers Mistress Nesta. Should her patient not allow her ministrations, she now uses the time to lift a pot from the brazier and pour tea steeped in chamomile and willow bark.

"Aye, my lady," Sereg says. When his light eyes rise, I see they glitter with what I think must be either pain or fever. "They attacked in the dark as we slept. My two boys, they are safe, but I lost my youngest, my little girl, her mother, too, who battled for her against them ere we could come upon them, and my mother's brother who came upon them first." He pauses, licking at dry lips. "I did what I could for them, my lady, but should you not have pity upon us, I shall lose even these," he says, and his hands come to cover the shaggy heads of his sons and he looks to them with a possessive fear that stabs as a spear to my heart.

"You and yours are welcome here," I say. "Did you doubt it?"

"There is rumor not, my lady," comes the answer, but it is from Mistress Pelara, who looks upon the man and his family grimly.

"What is this?" In my shock, I have raised my voice and Master Sereg clutches his son's heads to his side as he looks first upon the mistress and then upon me.

"There are stories, my lady, told in the south nigh to Dunland," he says, "that the Angle is closed to any who might think to flee here. They tell of men and women beaten and set upon by dogs. They say the children are taken and given to - "

At this, I wish to hear no more. "Listen not to the lies of our Enemy! No such thing has happened here! Nor shall it. You have my word on this."

"Forgive me, my lady, had I given offense," he says and drops his eyes again.

"I cannot promise you safety, but I can promise you my lord would not have you face the Shadow alone."

I had thought somewhat of hope would light within his eyes, but the man shrinks in upon himself and begins to weep, his hands coming to cover his face. So great had been the threats they faced, it seems, that he could only feel the terror of it when the danger had passed.

"Here now!" the Nesta exclaims, rising and stirring honey into a steaming cup. She presses it into the Sereg's hand and pats him upon the arm when he takes it. He has crumpled upon the floor, with his young sons, his mother, and his wife's sister about him attempting to comfort him. "They will need the rest, mind you, my lady," she warns sternly, "under shelter and afore a warm fire at night." She motions the little ones to the table where she returns so she can ply them with chunks of sweetened breads and make more tea.

"Aye, Mistress," I say. "Surely you had not thought I would press them to join us in the harvest unless they were well ready?"

She sniffs, and I wonder should it be in response, but, mayhap not, as she has raised an apple from the table to her nose. It passes inspection and she sits to cut wedges for the family.

With that, l am again blinking in the sunlight, for Mistress Pelara has taken me again by the elbow and drawn me from the house, closing the door behind her.

"What think you, my lady?" she asks.

_Ai!_ Wolves! And so near the Angle as his wounds show no sign yet of much healing. I hardly know what to think. Aye, my lord had passed warning that we had not the men to protect every homestead and pasture to those who would yet linger upon the distant reaches of what we once held, but to hear it so badly perverted!

"He has more tales to tell, my lady," Mistress Pelara continues when it seems I am at a loss to respond without breaking my lord's confidence. She speaks low and urgently. "They have not seen my lord's Rangers for nigh unto a year, now, and the men of Dunland grow bolder for it. They put our folk in the south to the sword and burned their holdings. Sereg and his family had not dared venturing forth ere now but for it. They thought our lord's Rangers had all retreated here."

_Ai!_ And cared so little for them as to leave them to their fate, it must seem to them.

But few of my lord's Rangers are about the Angle and most do not guard its folk. They range wide upon the Wilds, going most oft to the west, and I cannot think how to assure those who come here that they are welcome and as safe as can be made in these times.

"Mistress," I ask, "is my father's house still empty?"

"Aye, 'tis," Pelara says and smiles upon me grimly. "But it need not be so tonight."

She places her hand about my arm and squeezes her fingers there briefly. _"My thanks to thee, my lady."_

There we nod, and I may breathe freer for it.

"So, my lady," I hear behind me, "you think to make promises on our lord's behalf?"

The Elder has turned his sharp-eyed gaze upon me where he sits against the sun-warmed wall. His friend looks on, peering at me with dark eyes bright with curiosity.

"Aye, my lady, do not turn that look upon me," he warns, for I am surely frowning and must look about to draw breath and lay words of rebuke upon his head. "Your father's house is yours to give, so you would wish," he goes on, stabbing the point of his cane in my direction, "but you are of the House of Isildur, and that gift comes from my lord whether it was your hand that gave it, or no."

"What of it?" demands Mistress Pelara.

"Hear me daughter, no good will come of it, should the House give with one hand but not the other. And when it comes to the pinch, they will remember."

My flash of irritation is short-lived. True, we give generously to those who flee here, but in equal measure to aught of those who have need. His daughter makes to slap the Elder upon the shoulder with the back of her hand, but, ere the strike might fall, balls her fist and thinks better of it.

"Old man!" she scolds, letting loose a loud sound of displeasure. "You have abused us since ere you rose from your bed today! Be away now. Take your overworn forecasts elsewhere and do not darken my door with them until the evening meal."

"What of my tea?" he demands, glowering at his daughter.

"I care not!" she says. "Go! Now!"

"Fie!" he exclaims loudly and waves her ire away. Yet he rises stiffly, getting his cane beneath him. "Listen to me or do not, 'tis no concern of mine. Come, Curudir, let us go to Esgadil's house. He has a proper daughter."

Curudir shrugs and joins the Elder, but I do not wait to see what they truly intend, for his daughter has her palm upon my back and gentles me away.

The mistress scowls darkly, shaking her head at the old man as were he still there. But soon, her look softens, and we walk together through the square back to the threshing-floor. With that, my thoughts turn to the Elder's words. Though it annoys me greatly to admit it, should I look to my own heart with eyes unclouded by sympathetic tears, I know he may have somewhat of truth to say.

"Offer him your house, did you, my lady?" Mistress Pelara says, startling me from my thoughts, and I find her eyes shine brightly. "I think that news shall not be long in making its rounds about the Angle, should it not travel further. Indeed, I will not be surprised should our lord hear of it upon the boundary of whatever land he finds himself these days ere the night is up." She gestures breezily south and I frown, wondering, of all things, had she some reason to think my lord there.

And then I understand what she has just said and stop full upon the path and stare at her. "You think this is why I gave it, to make a good name for myself?"

"Did you not?" she asks, scowling brightly at me.

"No!"

"Oh," she says and shrugs. "No matter, my lady, it was well done regardless. You'll not hear a protest from me."

I stare at her some more, and then a laugh bursts from me. Atimes I know not what path to take, for each choice brings with it both censure and praise. I set my feet to walking again and she follows me.

"So at least you think it a wise move, then?"

"Aye," she says, and nods. "You will learn, my lady. There will be those who give you their loyalty because of what House you speak for, and simply for that. There will be those who will listen to you only once you have proved yourself. And prove yourself you must, my lady, whether by deliberate choice or by the simple outgrowth of the actions you would take regardless of what other's might think."

"I think I would hope it to proceed naturally from me," I say and give a wry glance to the folk who gather about the baker's ovens as we pass.

"Och," she grunts lightly. "It would not be wise to mistake liking for loyalty, my lady, nor to work only to please folk. Lady Gilraen knew that and taught me the lesson well. A medicine may be bitter yet be what the body most needs and you must be prepared to administer it. And then there will be those who will never abide you, no matter what you do."

"Like your father?" I ask, my voice grown soft, for I do not wish to offend her.

"Now, my lady, there you are wrong," she says, fixing a fierce eye upon me as she wags her finger. "Ever has my father been loyal to the House of Isildur and his heir, do not doubt it."

"Now," she says and pats me upon the arm, her face lightening. "Don't you mind his manner, my lady, he means but to warn you. His has been a foul mood since ere he arose this morning and he is as like to take it out on the King Recrowned as he is any lesser fool to cross his path this day."

"Then I feel pity for Esgadil's daughter," I say and Pelara shakes her head.

"The poor woman, and she has one of her own just as bad, too."

~oOo~


	16. Chapter 15

~ Chapter 15 ~

_But the Company cared no longer for watchers or unfriendly eyes. Their hearts were rejoiced to see the light of the fire. The wood burned merrily; and though all round it the snow hissed, and pools of slush crept under their feet, they warmed their hands gladly at the blaze. There they stood, stooping in a circle round the little dancing and blowing flames. A red light was on their tired and anxious faces; behind them the night was like a black wall._

FOTR: The Ring Goes South

~oOo~

_~ TA 3008, 2nd day of Nénimë: wool four ells in length and two- and one-half ells in width – light to the hand but tightly woven as solid base for stitching. Varied strips of silk taffeta and velvet one to three ells in length dyed of varied strengths of cornflower blue and woad blue, overdyes of madder root-red and burdock or weld leaf yellow. Mordant of alder wood ash. _

~oOo~

My breath is as smoke upon the air. A thin crust of snow has settled here where the high walls of the house and the fence protect the gardens against the wind, and I feel its chill even beneath the soles of my winter boots. And yet, though I shiver and draw my wrap the tighter, I walk between the rows of shriveled stems and withered plants, here where the heads of the yarrow bend beneath their icy burden, their pale, dry fronds rattling in the sudden breeze. Though I must dig in the snow and push aside brittle leaves, it is worth the price, for I am satisfied with what I see. At their roots I find small, dark, purple leaves hugging the ground. Here the Angle lies snug in the midst of winter, their bellies full and their hearths warm, and my garden sleeps beneath its chill blanket.

The tips of my fingers glow a dark pink as I replace the cover of snow and drifted leaves. I shake the water from my hand and tuck my fist deep into my wrap, yet still the skin prickles. Ah, it is cold! And so still. No chirp of cricket, call of bird, or song of frog to hide the crunch of snow beneath my steps. The hens are bedded down in their clutch and are not like to stir, and I must strain to hear their sleepy, slow clucking. Even the ever-present bleating of the sheep is quiet. They stand huddled in their shed, seeking warmth one from the other. They shall not venture forth today, I think. Master Herdir stays home to tend his ailing mother and I remind myself that I must spread the even's fodder for the flock he would be tending otherwise.

High above, the sun shines as a silver coin in a sky swept clean by the northern winds. I clutch my wrap about me and lift my face to its faint warmth. The air is chill and clean, as were it born of the newly fallen snow. A false spring covers the trees and bushes in the illusion of white petals. The fields lie fallow, clods of dirt poking up in brown speckles beneath the snow. Beyond them, the hills melt into the pale sky and the trees stand in a stiff net holding back the wind. All about is soft rolling white and blue shadow. It is as were the earth herself holding her breath, waiting.

And then I start and stare, falling still, for there, upon the far reaches of the fields, a lone figure climbs the sloping hill. He is but a dark shadow that trudges across the snow, but my heart knows him and leaps into pounding. Ah! He will be cold, and weary and hungry when he arrives.

I rush to the bucket where I set it down, slipping upon the wet snow in my haste. The water from the morning's cleaning splashes dirt o'er the garden and I hurry to the well. Never has the rope been so stiff and slick with ice nor the bucket so heavy. I must break a thin crust of frozen water ere it will rise, and it clangs against the walls of the well as a great, dull bell. Ah, quickly now, the water will be icy cold and my lord in great need of warmth.

"Elesinda!" I call. The door slams behind me and the girl's alarmed face pops into view at the buttery door, the hall warmly lit behind her. The bucket lands upon the floor with a loud thud, the water sloshing onto my foot.

"My lady?" she cries, her eyes wide. "What is it? Have they come at last?"

"They?" I ask, staring at her as I unwind the thick wool wrap from about my shoulders, caught up short. "What? No, no, child," I say and laugh, the sound high and glad in even that small space. "Our lord has come. Set the great pot upon the hearth, should it please you, and build up the fire."

"Ah!" she says and throws up a hand to her face. Her cheeks are aflame and eyes bright. "There's not a bit of fresh meat in the house! The last of the mutton went into the soup we ate yestereve and we had the bacon for breakfast. Oh, my lady, even should I pull the brined pork now-"

"What is this?" I hear and, of a sudden, the buttery goes dark. A great shadow looms in the door to the hall. "What is this you say? Aragorn is returned?"

"Aye, Ranger Halbarad." I pick up the bucket. When I rise the door is again empty and light streams into the buttery from the hall. I raise my voice to follow the man. "He is come e'en now, from o'er the fields." But I speak to the empty hall, for Halbarad snatches his cloak from off the peg even as he opens the great door. Loudly the latch clacks closed behind him.

"My lady? What are we to do?"

"Ah!" I exclaim. The bucket is heavy and the thunderstruck girl in my way. I wave her out of the door. "The pot first, girl! Then I shall start the meal while you run to the baker and the butcher's stall, after. Hurry now!"

The moments fly with our feet and the great pot is filled and set upon the fire, I thrust a brick near the coals where it warms, another pot of water simmers about a bone and Elesinda, bundled in her cloak and wrap, races to the square with a basket o'er her arm. A large bowl of lentils soaks at my hand. Pepper, garlic, dried bay leaf and wizen turnips I have arrayed afore me on a board and I kneel afore the hearth, cutting onions into thin slices and hoping the tears they raise do not mar my face. We shall come all too soon upon the midday meal, and sure though my lord is unlooked for, the noise of his coming shall rouse his men and his hall will be full of their welcome.

Low come my lord and his kinsman's voices and their steps are the louder for the champ of boot upon snow. _Ai!_ I smell of onion and my nose runs for the fumes. Wiping my eyes upon my sleeve, I dunk my hands in the cleaning bowl and, shaking them out, hope this is sufficient to rid them of their stink.

"Be forewarned," I hear Halbarad's low voice move below the windows, "they prepare for you."

My lord's laughter lingers upon his face as he enters the hall. I have risen to greet him, putting aside my apron and leaving it by the hearth. My skirts are smoothed, and my hair tucked inside my scarf. My lord's chair sits between the table and hearth and a blanket lies upon a bench near the blaze to catch its warmth. All is as it should be.

"My lord," I say, "your House welcomes you home."

"Lady," my lord says and bows in answer to my low reverence as his kinsman relieves him of his pack.

"Shall I put this on the table, then?"

"Yes, Halbarad," my lord says when his kin hefts the pack in his fist.

Halbarad takes the sword given him in one hand and carries the pack with the other, striding to the table. There he lays down my lord's kit and carefully winds the leather straps about the scabbard that houses his kin's sword. The striking of the buckles one upon the other chimes softly.

"My lord," I ask, having waited for what seems the most opportune moment, "would it please you to rest and be warm while you wait for your bath?"

"Aye, lady," he says and pulls at the tie that holds his cloak closed, "naught would please me more. I have looked forward to it since crossing the Last Bridge."

With that I go to the bench to remove the blanket draped o'er it. "My lord would wish to sit in his chair?"

"What is that?" My lord glances o'er his shoulder from where he hangs his cloak by the door and frowns. "Aye, lady, should that be where you wish me."

"My lord may sit where he pleases," I say and gesture with the corner of the blanket to the rest of the hall, but he shakes his head.

His stride takes him swiftly across the room. "The chair will do, lady."

"You may open it, should you wish," my lord says to his kin, nodding at his pack where it awaits him as he passes by the table.

"Aye," is all of Halbarad's reply as the man places his kin's sword upon its rests on the wall behind the table.

My lord sits, and I lay the blanket about his shoulders. The wool is drenched in heat and surprise comes over my lord's face, but he quickly pulls its folds about him and works his hands into the blanket's depths.

"My thanks to you, lady," he says, and I bow.

"There you will find the reports of which I spoke." My lord speaks to his kin as had their conversation had no interruption and, like as not, does not see that I now kneel afore him.

Halbarad nods and tucks the buckles beneath my lord's sword hangers and tugs to secure them. I have moved the supports where my lord once hung his sword and my lord's brow knots as he watches. In their stead, I have taken my lord's mother's silks and out of them fashioned a tall banner to hang from the rafters behind his chair, marking his place. The star of the Dúnedain rises over its shimmering reflection in the western sea, or so my thought had made it, for I have ne'er seen its wide waters. And this is not the only change. Upon the table I have laid a runner of a fine, dark linen and upon my lord's chair set a cushion of velvet, made from the skirts of the dress I wore when I was wedded to him and stuffed full of wool sheared from the sheep of my dower.

"Should they displease you, my lord, I shall remove them," I say from where my head is bent o'er his feet and my lord turns. His gaze does little to relieve the tightness within my breast. His face holds a curious expression whose meaning I cannot discern.

"No. Leave them," he says, and gathers the folds of the blanket about him so that he may sit back in his chair.

"Ale?" Halbarad asks, his task done.

"Aye, it would be most welcome," my lord says and then, frowning, draws his foot sharply away from my hand where I had a hold upon the heel of his boot.

"What is it you do?" he demands, and I blink up at him, my dismay weighting my tongue.

"Forgive me, my lord," I finally say, sinking back upon my heels, my head bowed to receive the reproof I hear clear in his voice. "I thought only your feet would be cold and in need of warming."

Long, it seems, is the moment he gazes upon me. I cannot perceive the thoughts he ponders, and I listen to Halbarad moving about in the buttery as I wait for my lord to speak. But he does not. When I raise my face, I marvel to see somewhat of regret darkening my lord's eyes.

"My lord," I say, uncertain though I am. "Would you refuse the comfort your wife would give you?"

"No," says he, his voice low.

He is then still and does not protest when I draw off his boots, carefully, for I know his feet are no doubt numb and strangely brittle from the cold. I set his feet upon my lap, so he need not lay them upon the floor. Though woven mats of rushes now line the stone where once they were bare, still they can only cushion so much against the cold and I can feel the chill of my lord's feet even through my skirts. I doubt not they are as pale as ice within his hose and the bones jut beneath the skin all the sharper for their stiffness.

I have pulled the brick from the hearth and wrapped about it a thick carpet of wool, and now set my lord's feet upon the bundle. Resting the tougher soles upon its warmth, he lifts his toes from its surface and I recall my father's face grimacing in discomfort as the blood within his toes quickened after days of walking upon the frozen Wild. Swiftly, I lay a blanket upon it all, and press my hands against his feet through the wool, rubbing his toes and easing the sting of awakening flesh.

"Lady," I hear and look up to find my lord gazing upon me, his look grave.

A shadow passes o'er my head ere he has a chance to speak further. My lord takes the cup offered and Halbarad nods to the thanks he receives. There is a certain smugness to Halbarad's look of mirth when he turns away to delve through my lord's pack.

Soon enough, my lord leans against the back of his chair and sighs, clutching the cup to his breast, and I know he is comfortable. I leave him to sit afore the hearth, his shoulders wrapped in the blanket with naught but his hand showing where he clutches his mug of ale. Softly he and Halbarad then speak, my lord seeking news of the Angle and his kin asking questions of the world at large as the water of his bath heats. I, after laying his boots near the hearth where they may dry, return to preparing the meal, leaving them to it.

~oOo~


	17. Chapter 16

~ Chapter 16 ~

_'There is food in the wild,' said Strider; 'berry, root, and herb; and I have some skill as a hunter at need. You need not be afraid of starving afore winter comes. But gathering and catching food is long and weary work, and we need haste. So tighten your belts, and think with hope of the tables of Elrond's house!'_

FOTR: A Knife in the Dark

~oOo~

_~ TA 3008, 2nd day of Nénimë: But ten of our wandering folk have found their way to the Angle since Ringarë of last year, and most from our southern reaches. Those few of the north tell of freezing rain and ice coming upon the days of their harvest, so that they had little to store for the months ahead. Rivers they once relied upon to guard their backs froze and across them clambered orcs of the Ettenmoors. _

~oOo~

Bright are the men's faces in the warmth of their lord's gaze. They drift in from their duties and soon their voices ring through the hall. Word has spread among those who winter here in the Angle, they who are assigned to her defense or fled here to recover from hurt and ill health. Glad am I for their coming, for with their return my lord's eyes come alight. He has too long been away, I think.

I know his men now by name and speak to them as I keep their cups full. Gelir, he of the saucy look and the light eyes of his grandsire, now hovers about the hearth, limping upon a twisted ankle. Mathil, young and fair of face, smothers a cough from where he lies upon the far side of the hearth. One look at the dark skin beneath his eyes and, after he spoke to my lord of a trail of wolves upon the northern borders of Bree, Halbarad pointed to the bench and followed behind Mathil with the blanket and pillow he uses as his own. To my wonderment, Halbarad then stole into the buttery and, slicing gingerroot into thin slivers with the knife dangling from his belt, joined me at the hearth and prepared a strong tea of ginger, honey, and chamomile for the man. At greater ease, Mathil's lids fall heavy upon his eyes, yet he forces himself awake so he may hear his lord's voice among his fellows. Though, could I credit it, his gaze turns most oft to my lord's kin.

Mid-morning, Elesinda returned from the market and I spread garlic and herbs upon the joints of meat she purchased there. They cook now upon the grate, sending puffs of savory smoke into the hall. The pot of lentils and turnips simmers briskly. Sweet steam leaks from yet another pot, wherein bubbles a thick pottage of wheat, ground hazelnuts, raisins and honey. I lay bread and bowls of butter upon the table, the men leaning aside and returning my smile as I reach about them. It shall satisfy them, or so I hope.

Gelir, as the youngest of their company, was tapped to aid Elesinda and I in our preparations. For all the mischief he may make, he takes his task to heart. He turns the meat upon the grate, careful to spread the coals and ward away flames that may char our meal, boasting of his skills learned under the tutelage of his eldest brother, the Angle's baker. Elesinda hands him a cup of water to douse a sudden blaze where he crouches by the hearth and I must turn aside to hide my smile. When e'er their hands cross, her glance flutters about and he falls still and cannot seem to draw his away. I wonder were Halbarad as aware of the looks shared between those two, and should that be why the lad was chosen, or had he set the lad an overly long penance for his mischief at my lord's wedding feast.

Of the other Rangers who gather about my lord at his table, Haldren with his mane of silvered hair, sharp of nose and temper, eases an aching leg upon the bench and tells a grim tale of our folk put to the sword in the wide lands north of the Great Road. The Ranger across from him, Melethron of the thick brows and deep voice, pulls at his ear, his face tightened in discontent, and debates the spoor of wolves and werewolves with a thin, morose-looking Lathril. And so they sit now among their fellows, quaffing their ale and speaking loudly, interrupting one and another. My lord's hall hums with their voices, the rich smells of their midday meal, and the joy they take one of another.

My lord's maps stretch out afore them. His light and dark stones lie spilled out upon the table's runner and the men place them upon the parchment as they argue. Then, they fall silent as my lord rubs at the hair upon his lip with light fingers, gazing upon the hills about Bree and the boundaries of the land of the Halflings.

When he straightens, his men grow intent. And when he beckons them close and moves the markers about, the hall is silent but for the brisk snap of the fire and the sizzling of the meats. I think I hear even the rustling of the stones upon the parchment as he slips them across it surface.

"See here, now," says he and shuttles the stones back to their original position. "You tell me you find sign of orc in the Weather Hills and our folk flee afore their raids as far west as the Downs. But, is it true? No sign is to be found of them south of the Great Road?"

"None, my lord. There be rumor of men from Dunland," says one and "But they skulk about the Old South Road and, as yet, have come no further north than Sarn Ford," adds another.

My lord nods, his eyes ne'er straying from the parchment where he now selects a stone, two and then three of black and moves them west. "And here old sign was seen of their crossing the river, and here they began their raids and torched the winter settlements at Andúnëlad and killed their cattle and goats, and here they were cornered in the Weather Hills by the wandering clans of the northern hills. Were they not?" He lifts his eyes and his sharp gaze takes in their agreement.

"And here, running afore them, were there tracks of wolves that slipped through our lines and came upon the marshes and near to Chetwood." He lays a line of dark stones upon the border of Bree.

"Aye, wolves, they were, though we found them not," says Ranger Lathril.

"I think it more like they were werewolves," Ranger Melethron interrupts to say. "Their tracks lead to no den I could find, and they were unlike any wolf's I have yet to see."

"What difference is there between a were and a wolf's print, pray tell?" asks Lathril, his voice sharpened with thinly disguised impatience.

"Wolves, weres, upon this point it matters little." My lord raises his voice and their discord comes to an abrupt halt. "Can we afford to allow the threat of either?"

They shake their heads, at least in accord over this matter, and my lord goes on. He traces the dark stones from west to east in a ragged line and then continues on through the empty spaces of the Wild until his finger lands upon the Misty Mountains above the High Pass. My lord's men settle back into their seats with faces grim and silent. Ever since the Second Age when Eregion and Moria fell into darkness have the orcs bred in the black shadows of the roots of the mountains.

"Our enemies have grown bold," says my lord. "And there is little to stop them, for the lands north of the Great Road shall soon empty of the folk of our wandering clans as they flee hence or take to their summer encampments in the northern hills where they have better chance of defense."

"What think you, Halbarad?" he asks and turns to his kin seated next to him, who has been silent through it all.

Halbarad shakes his head, his face implacable. "The little folk of the Shire and men of Bree are ill-defended my lord, and I doubt not this is now known to every hive of orc that burrows beneath the mountains."

"Aye," my lord says and, letting loose a soft breath, gathers up the black stones and drops them to the Misty Mountains. "They will skirt north upon the Coldfells, for Master Elrond's reach is long and his sons bear little love for orcs. The lessons were hard in the teaching, but they have learned to avoid the folk of Imladris. Our homesteads and summer pastures east of the Weather Hills, you tell me, are now all but abandoned. Mayhap we should be wise to remove the folk who yet remain."

"And those who yet do not wish to leave their homesteads or pastures?"

"As afore, I would still give them the choice, but again make it clear, we have not the men to assure their safety should they remain of their own will. We cannot be driven by our fears for their fortune or we shall lose all."

"The great roads, these too, they will shun," he goes on and his men watch as his hand covers the lands of old Cardolan. "Men may travel upon them and so may dwarves, but should the orcs wish to travel unhindered and in greater company than we have heretofore seen, they will not risk the chance of discovery. I would know more of these strange men of whom you speak. We will not forget them, but I deem we have more time to discover their source and purpose. Now, we are hard upon it. Oh, the time is unripe yet, and the host will not be overlarge. But, never fear, they are coming, my friends. When the weather breaks, we must be prepared to meet them."

In his eyes a fell spark gleams and I think he would nigh welcome the chance. His men come to lean across the table when my lord takes up a handful of light stones and scatters them between the arms of the Great Road and the Misty Mountains.

"Let us catch them here, ere the Last Bridge where the waters of the Mitheithel run deep and strong with the melting snows, and we shall press their backs to the river."

Merciless and resolute is the light in the eyes that answer my lord's sharp gaze.

"Until then, keep your eyes open and defend what you must, but show not too great a force. Let them think they may catch us unawares. We could well use the time we buy to our advantage."

The men say naught, but they nod, and ease back upon their seats. I, who have been listening as I work among my lord's men, wonder at where he has spent these months when away. I cannot think why it would be so, but it seems he saw to the defense of the lands of the Halflings. His men do not question this wisdom, and I marvel at the depth of their trust for him. Indeed, now he has spoken their cares are comforted and they set to laughing, speaking of matters no more weighty than the gossip of the Angle.

My lord sits at ease at his table. Ranger Melethron bends my lord's ear, pointing at a sour-faced Halbarad and completing some tale which has not, afore, been told within my hearing, and with good reason. For he speaks of his alarm at the stories told by the goodwives of the Angle upon their gatherings.

"My wife, my own Berel came home from one such," he says, "and you would not credit the ideas it gave her. I could not walk for a full day, after. Not that I would complain, but a man's nethers cannot take the strain –"

Haldren coughs, glancing briefly, albeit pointedly above Melethron's head where I reach to take his cup and refill his ale.

"Ah, my lady," Melethron says, twisting about and peering up at me as I turn the pitcher to his cup. His gaze takes in my raised brow and his mouth falls closed with a faint click, and smothered laughter sounds about him. Little shows on Haldren's sharp features but for the deepening of the creases upon the corners of his eyes and twitching of the lines about his lips.

My lord's eyes shine warmly. He inclines his head to me. "My thanks to you, lady, you have succeeded in teaching Melethron when to hold his peace, where it seems I have failed."

"You are most generous, my lord," I say. Dropping my gaze from his, I smile, so delighted am I. "But I doubt it was my doing, for surely your tongue is withered beyond all use, Ranger Melethron, after so salty a tale." I offer him his cup, now full.

To the amusement of his mates, the man colors prettily when he takes his cup, his face wry, and he mumbles an apology. My lord laughs and claps the man upon his back. It seems he is satisfied his Ranger has been sufficiently admonished and holds it against him no longer. I am not displeased, for though it seems my lord and his men have little knowledge of the matters of which women speak when far from their ears, I am satisfied that it remains so.

"My lady," I hear, and I am called away by Elesinda. The meal is ready.

When the bowls are filled there is little talk, for the men set to their food with good will. I sit at my lord's side. Once I filled my own bowl and prepared to sit at an opening at the foot of the table, Halbarad rose and cuffed Melethron briskly across his shoulder.

"Move!" was all he commanded, and the man rose from his seat. Nor did Halbarad allow him the place I had thought to take, for with a sharp look he forbade it and then later ushered Elesinda there. It seems he was not so forgiving as my lord of Melethron's lapse.

"My lady," Halbarad offers, taking the bowl from my hand and setting it in the now vacant place by my lord, claiming it as mine.

Melethron bows his head, touching his fingers briefly to his brow as he passes. He alone sits by the hearth, but makes no complaint, knowing he had earned it.

My lord eats slowly beside me, guarding an unpracticed belly, and does not speak to me. But he seems to savor each bite and I am content.

~oOo~

Here in the solar I sit at my table, my basket of mending and sewing beside me, plying needle to cloth. The linen is new and stiff between my fingers, its black taking a pleat sharply. That is well, for, with thread of dark gold, I bind rows of smocking upon the head of a sleeve and struggle to keep the space between the pleats even. It is fine work and I lean into the light of the lamp.

When the day was nigh come to its end, the men went to their homes. Only Elesinda lingered yet in the buttery, wrapping the remains of our day's meals in a towel to take with her to her family, leaving but Halbarad and my lord behind. There in the hall we were quiet, in the lull of the day. Soft I heard my lord's kin's footsteps upon the snow as he walked the grounds, securing the house. The days of winter draw short and the sky darkens soon, it seems, after the midday meal. When Halbarad returns from escorting Elesinda to her home, we will bar the door and settle in for the night.

I, the work of the day done, stood afore my tall loom. A cloth of blue and gray figures of fish bound about the edges with the rolling waves of the river grew above my head where the warp threads hung from their beam. The clay rounds swayed and jangled against one tother as I pulled the heddles against their weight and set the rods in their supports. Only my lord lacked for occupation. He paced about the hall, his feet falling slow and soft upon the rushes. It seemed little could hold his mind.

'Twas not that he lacked a task. Indeed, he attempted many. He had laid out his gear upon the table. His gloves needed mending, I saw, for there were holes at their tips where his fingers would poke through. The lacings of his pouch were knotted where they were broken and need replacing. I shall not dwell upon the state of his second shirt, for I yet hope to steal it from his belongings when he is not aware and rip it into the rag it surely is.

But he left his purse unraveled and a needle stuck in the thumb of his glove. He could not sit still, and once seemingly settled, launched himself to his feet only to find no true resting place. Oft did I feel the weight of his glance, yet when I turned to the hall, it was only to find he looked elsewhere, busying himself first with the careful study of the buckles and straps of his sword where it rested upon the wall and then squatting afore the hearth to clean his pipe. He scraped at the bowl and knocked it against his palm to rid it of the ashes, yet, when I spoke to him of the small tub of pipeweed in the buttery, he nodded and thanked me, but then resumed his slow circuit of the hall, laying his pipe aside with his other gear.

I would think my lord would have one thought upon his mind. Had I not heard the tales of a Ranger-returned from their wives? His feet were warm, his body clean, his worries eased, and his belly full, where else would a man's thoughts tend? And yet my lord did not speak, nor approach me in any other manner. I was left only to marvel at what weighed on my lord's mind so heavily in its place.

My lord's feet scraped upon the woven rushes and then fell still, and I heard the creak of his chair. It seemed his mind had settled, and, with a glance, I saw he had pulled his shirt to him and turned it upon itself, seeking how best to go about mending it. At this, a sigh escapes my lips, but I know not what else to do. For even the shirt he wears now fits him quite ill and must chafe upon his shoulders. As of yet, he has no other that fits him better.

"My lady," I heard. Elesinda stood in the buttery, her bundle dangling afore her.

"Are you done, Child?" I said, winding the yarn upon its shuttle ere laying it aside.

"Aye, my lady."

I went swiftly to the door, meeting the girl there as she wrapped her cloak about her, so I might hold her bundle. I have kneaded the dough for tomorrow's bread and the rounds lied in a greased bowl upon a chest there, wrapped about in thick linen. Each night she takes the dough to the baker in the Angle's square, where he shall let them rise, and each morning ere dawn, he then sets the bread in his ovens.

I waited until she has pulled on her mittens to hand her the bundle, and smiled at the girl, for I could barely see her face for the wrapping of hood about the scarf upon her hair.

"A good night to you, Elesinda," said I, placing the bowl in her arms. Halbarad shall meet her just out the door to walk her home and, no doubt, will relieve her of the burden as he always does.

She nodded, and then dropped a reverence across the table to where my lord sits.

"A safe night to you," he said, and her eyes dropped, and she stammered somewhat of thanks and farewell.

When the door closed behind the girl I found my lord's eyes upon me and then, as swiftly as I knew them there, they were withdrawn, and he busied himself with threading his needle.

My lord and I were then alone.

Though the weaving of this cloth has proceeded slowly for all its interruptions, I had little stomach for many more minutes of this, my lord busy not speaking to me and I ever aware of his gaze and tense beneath it. The warp hung true and should I run my hand across it, the threads shall thrum in their place. I could have stayed, I suppose, but I set the heddle at rest against the uprights so that the warp hung in a smooth fall of threads. Truly, my mending awaited upstairs, and I could think of no other reason to keep me to the hall.

"Have you further need of me this even, my lord?"

His glance rose swiftly from his work and it seemed a long moment ere he comprehended my question. "You wish to retire, lady?"

"Should you have need you wish me to see to, I shall remain, my lord," I said from where I stood, the distance of the hall between us.

"Nay, lady, I think I may comfortably see to myself for this little."

And so, having naught else to say, I left him to his chosen task and climbed the stairs.

'Tis true the moments may pass more swiftly when mind and hand are of accord, yet it seemed but a short time had passed when I hear my lord's soft tread upon the stairs. His stride shortens when he reaches the solar and, were it not so unlike the chieftain I saw among his men, I would say his look is uncertain.

"My lord," I say, rising.

"Lady," he says and comes to a halt.

His face is solemn as he considers me. Here in the dim light of the edge of the solar the lamp paints his features in the colors of twilight and deep shadow. I toy with the stiff cloth in my hands and wish he would speak, for I would know what brings him hither. But he does not, and I find I cannot bear the weight of his eyes in the silence. I slip the needle into the ridges of smocking and, dropping it to the table, hold my hands afore me.

_"It lightens the hearts of thy people to see thee, my lord."_

_"Should it bring thee joy, then I am glad for it,"_ he replies and yet speaks no further.

Then, as lightning o'er a darkened field, it comes to me my lord waits for my invitation. Here we are in my lord's house, where his word rules our days, yet it becomes clear he will not approach me until I sanction his presence. So stunned am I, for a dizzying moment I know not what to do.

Then I go swiftly to the bed, where sits the mate to the stool on which I settled. My lord makes a quick motion as were he to follow and carry the seat himself, but he is late in his intent.

"My lord," I say, setting the stool by the table. "Will you not join me?"

"Gladly, lady." He bows his head and waits for me to reseat myself ere coming to the table.

And so my lord and I face one another in the soft light and, then, it seems we have naught to say. For my lord clasps his hands where they rest upon the table and I cannot bring my eyes to bear upon aught else, much less open my mouth and pour words into the emptiness between us.

"Your journeys, my lord," I say, swallowing quickly. "They were fruitful?"

"Aye, they served their purpose."

"I hope you suffered no great privation upon them."

"Not so little I would forego the pleasure of sleeping upon a real bed now I am here," says he and, from the lift of the corners of his lips, I expect he attempts at some mirth. When I cannot reward his efforts with my own, he goes on, his voice low. "And you, lady. I trust you have been comfortable here in my absence."

"Aye, my lord."

"Good, good," says he, nodding. "And how fares the House? Has Herdir taken to his duties well?"

"Aye, my lord, your reeve has overseen a good harvest. There has been little waste of grain, man or beast. The Angle fares well this winter."

"Good!" he says and, indeed, he looks well pleased. "Good," says he again, his delight softening along with his voice, and then he falls silent.

I think my lord has some matter that presses upon his thoughts, for we have exhausted the most obvious subjects and yet he stares at his hands with a look most resolute.

"And, lady," says he, and then falters. "Have you not, I would think mayhap by now it would be clear –" My lord brings himself to a stop and begins again, his voice the stronger for having taken a clear breath. "Have you no sign of your quickening, lady?"

It is a full moment ere I understand his meaning, so taken aback am I. We had lain together just the once.

"No, my lord."

"Ah, yes, of course," says he and falls quiet again. "And how then have your days been, lady, have you found aught to fill them?"

"Aye, my lord, the charge you gave me fills much of my time," I say, thinking of the hours I have spent learning of the ways of the Angle under Mistress Pelara's tutelage, cramping my fingers near into a claw for the figures I keep.

"Yes, so I would expect."

"Lady," says he swiftly after a quiet moment, startling me into looking upon him. "I am a man unused to the company of women and much used to the loneliness of the road. I had not looked to enjoy the comforts a wife might give until many more years had passed."

His eyes no longer are unsure but meet mine with a soft light. "Mayhap you will allow me some time more to become accustomed to them."

_"I have a question to ask thee, my lord_," I say and startle at the sound of my own voice, for I had not planned to speak of this.

_"I would hear it."_ His voice is gentle.

"My lord," say I, for there is naught for it but to proceed, "should you not return, how would we know it?"

My lord sits silent, considering, I think, his response. "And these were your thoughts as the days passed, lady?"

I need say naught, and indeed cannot, but look steadily upon the floor where my lord's shadow flickers o'er the planks. I dare not show my face to my lord; for I am sure revealed there he would see each night I watched the sun's fall upon the horizon and saw not my lord's shadow lengthening afore it. I shall regret this, I think, the baring of my heart.

"Then I shall send word, for I owe you a debt of comfort. But it will be seldom; for there are few I may safely trust," he says. "Will that satisfy you, lady?"

"Aye, my lord." Only now can raise my eyes to his, but I cannot hold his glance for long. For his face has softened with a gentle sorrow.

_Ai! _Well, 'tis done and there is no going back.

Did my lord wonder at my heart? Aye, its weight sits heavy in my breast. And now, what name shall my lord put to what fills it?

~oOo~


	18. Chapter 17

~ Chapter 17 ~

_When winter first begins to bite  
and stones crack in the frosty night,  
when pools are black and trees are bare,  
'tis evil in the Wild to fare._

FOTR: The Ring Goes South

~oOo~

_~ TA 3008, 5__th__ day of Nénimë: Snow again yestereve. Little cloud and bright sunlight today. Flooding upon the southeastern Angle likely earlier than last year. Ten men of three days-work each called to repair earthworks upon the western banks of the Tithecelon and extend the water course from about the southeast edge of Master Fimon's pasture where it is at its lowest. _

~oOo~

There. Just so.

I have cleared the table and set Elesinda to its scrubbing after our noon meal. The Council shall assemble in my lord's hall and I wish naught give him cause for unease. Seldom does he attend. For that I built up the fire and placed his chair at the foot of his banner, so he might best appear afore it. The hall is warm and comfortable, with winter rugs hanging afore the high windows, cushions upon the benches, and the sharp scent of burning leaves of rosemary thrown upon the fire to sweeten the air.

The flames ripple and rush o'er the wood and the faint sounds of Elesinda moving about drift into the hall from the buttery. As was their wont, Halbarad and my lord spent their morning battering their swords against each other, and I had heard their muted voices raised in their battles from across the gardens. I did not watch, for, once, coming upon them, I found the fierce blows and pitched voices of the men I knew as gentle with their strength a fearsome thing. After, my thoughts dwelt too long on the pain and peril that lies in wait for them and the lines of grief and grim fear it has carven into their faces. But, now, they rest, and Halbarad has taken to carving some small thing where he sits beside the hearth. His knife flickers in the light of the fire, but he is content to remain silent.

When I am done, my lord sits at his chair and draws his journals to him. I think him preparing, for, come mid-afternoon, the men of the Council will arrive with their cheeks and noses pinched a soft pink from the chill, scrubbing their booted feet upon the mat at the door and drawing their cloaks from about them. They will linger about the hearth, their eyes drawn to my lord and eager to warm themselves by the fire and, I think, the light of their liege's gaze.

I, too, have given much thought to the preparations, and, aye, I intend to serve ale, foregoing the heady mix of wine and debate. Elder Maurus may wish again for his tea, and so I shall set a pot of water near the grate for later and hope the honey shall sweeten his temper. Smoked cheeses and such dried fruits and nuts as remain us, I think, shall be welcome, but not yet. For the hour of the Elders' arrival is yet distant and I wander about the hall, putting small things to rights.

I would not wish to disturb my lord and so ease drawers and lids shut with care, but I catch his eye atimes. I like not the way the cushions lay upon this or that bench and pick up one to plump it and drop it only to fix upon another to join the first. 'Tis when I reach for yet a third my lord speaks.

"Lady," says he and I glance up to find him turning a weary look upon me. He sets aside his quill and rises from his chair. "Enough."

I am at first slow to move from the bench o'er which I bend, for I cannot think what my lord intends.

"Some freer air may do us both a good." He strides to the hall's great door and draws me after him with his look. "_Should it please thee, _lady, will you not join me?"

"We shall be gone just a little." This he says to his kin who sits by the fire. Halbarad looks up with eyes that wonder at my lord, but then he hides it with a nod and returns to the task he has set himself.

With that, I find myself bundled in boots, coat, hood, and mittens and following my lord as he leads the way out of doors. 'Tis not uncommon for lovers to go a'walking, there upon the Angle where they may enjoy the other's company and yet remain safe under the eye of their folk. I know not should this be my lord's mind, for, putting his back to the village, he chooses a path that opens upon the meadows, skirting the drystone fence and coming upon the gate through which the sheep are pastured.

The sun shines brightly upon the snow and sets a white fire about the trees. Drops of water mark a slow time from the thatch, carving a honeycomb of tunnels into the drifts at the base of the house, and our boots make dark signs upon the earth. The air is brisk and soon sets my nose to running, but the day is mild and I am not uncomfortable.

For a long while as we walk I hear naught but the crunch of our feet upon the snow, our breath harsh upon the hush of winter, and my sniffling. It is not until we put the gate behind us and make our climb to the top of a short rise does my lord speak.

"Halbarad tells me you spend much time at the house of Elder Maurus," says he and I must recall myself to putting one foot afore the other, much taken am I in wondering what else his kin may have revealed to him. "How fares Maurus? I have not heard."

"Well, I think, my lord." 'Tis true, it is difficult to tell atimes for the Elder's prattle of aching bones and the sleeplessness of the hours of his morn, though this is an observation I do not share with my lord. And yet it seems unjust to not answer my lord more fully, and so I go on, hoping the simplicity of my remarks shall not prove tiresome to him. "His youngest grandchild, a girl, is oft in his care and he dotes on her. She is bare able to pull herself up by his knee but is already set to fetching his cap for him."

"Yes, I recall he was besotted with his daughter in much the same manner."

I had not thought it so for the way they trade sharp words between them, but my lord smiles with the fondness of some remembrance, so mayhap it is true.

"Think you he will attend the Council today, lady?"

"I know not, my lord," I say, for they do seem to weary the Elder and I can recall a handful of Councils convened without him in just these two seasons past.

My lord nods, making a small thoughtful sound, and then halts. His eyes are bright with the cold and a certain delight as he turns and takes in the house and its crofts. I have not seen it in the snow at this distance and, truly, it seems a welcoming sight. All but hidden in a screen of bare fruit trees and the limbs of the great oak, the house nestles into the arms of the woods, smoke climbing upon the air from the grate in the roof. Snug and warm it seems, awaiting our return with the promise of hearth, and food, and bed.

"The House fares well," says my lord with, I think, some satisfaction.

He turns his look then upon the meadow and the march of trees upon the distant hills. For the hood he wears, I see naught but the tip of his nose and chin and the puff of frozen air when he releases his breath to speak.

"I would hear your thoughts, lady."

He fixes upon me with a quick, measuring gaze and, touching the crook of my arm, urges me to resume our walk.

"Here we are in the quiet of winter," he says, following the slope of the land to the edge of the meadow. "Should you have its ordering, to what would you have the Council bend its will?"

I have naught to say, at first, for my thoughts are sent scattering upon the suggestion my lord might wish to know them. But my lord is patient, setting a leisurely pace down the hillock and looking about him as he waits.

Aye, 'tis winter and the Angle mends fences, fortifies the ditches and water gates about the fields, and cares for its beasts. All have shelter and food. There is little that puts the pinch upon our folk, for the work of the harvest was well done and the Valar were kind in their apportioning of sun and rain.

"It would seem to be a time to set our sights upon the next winter, my lord."

"Aye," he says and, halting, squints into the glare of sun upon the fields and chooses his path. We shall soon hit upon the brook that cleaves the soil of the meadow into a deep channel. The rill runs fast with melted snow and the sound of water runs clean and strong. "Halbarad tells me you are about when the Councils convene. How well does it plan for what may come, do you think?"

Not well. Oh, they band together should the need be urgent, but should not the fire be close enough to warm their buttocks, they set to squabbling about whose bucket should be used to dowse the flames. I dare not say it, but it seems I need not, for my lord, catching sight of my face, makes a rough sound of agreement.

"They are good men, all, my lord." I raise my voice over the gathering noise of rushing water, for my lord strides ahead of me, seeking a place he must know to ford the stream.

"Aye," my lord agrees, and he halts, looking down the bank to the water below as I come upon him. "_But all men have their weaknesses, their failings, and never more than when they attempt to lead._" "But then," he goes on, peering beneath the overhanging grasses and snow, "mayhap, you have not attended to it."

"I have found Elder Tanaes to be well-intentioned, my lord," say I, his disinterest stiffening my spine and lending a crisp tone to my speech. "And he would make a good head of the Angle's council, would he not let Master Bachor draw him into argument. It seems they lose themselves in niggling matters, Master Bachor as quick to become impatient and ill-tempered as Elder Maurus is to become fretful. And the rest fall in line with whichever way the wind may blow them."

Sharp then is the gaze that takes me in, with a light I might name as mischief should it not be my lord's eyes that shine with it. Ah! Confound the man! I have fallen easily to his bait. How had he known my pride so easily stung as to overcome my better judgment? 'Tis not my place to criticize the Elders of my people.

"Aye," he says slowly. Should I have thought my lord making sport of me, the pleasure that lightens the somber cast of his face puts a lie to it. "Elder Tanaes' past service to the House of Isildur may be too well remembered to be the voice of ploughmen, cotters, and craftsmen. Elder Bachor may well be prone to strong feeling. But remember, lady, and be cautious, a man's anger most oft lies as a thin veil over his fear.

"Elder Bachor has the respect of our folk, and with good reason. All those under his care in the Angle prosper and he holds much influence. He has the touch for it and oft knows what is needed well ere others think to turn their thoughts thither. With his ties of trade, he has learned much of the world about us and the folk and custom of different lands. I doubt not you know his grandsire was of the wandering clan of the _Randírim_. But when their forefathers fled north from Umbar they brought with them many skills of metal-working that gave them influence among the wandering clans that they have maintained even now. Bachor may not have much in way of ties with the _Randírim_ as of yet, but the wandering clans shall recognize his dark bronze skin and high cheeks as one of them. Give it time, and Bachor will hold influence among them, too. And as for Maurus, it would be a grave injustice, lady, to mistake him for a fool."

"But," he goes on and turns to make his way down the steep bank of the stream. "I shall leave the matter to your own reckoning. It is, I deem, a good lesson in the subtleties of old men."

"Come," he says, lifting his hand for mine, for he has stepped lightly upon the stones that make a path to the further bank.

When I give my hand in turn, my lord grasps upon my wrist tightly so he may make my feet secure. Here in the shadowed crevice, ice forms in a thin crust under which the flow of water gurgles. Air rises from the water and tastes of melting snow and weathered earth as my lord sees me safely o'er the stones. Looking upon it, I despair of climbing the far bank for my much shorter legs, but my lord lifts himself to its top and fair pulls me after him until the land stretches out afore me. Upon the hillside lays a thin blanket of white, here and there broken by grasses that tremble in the breeze and cast their faint shadows upon the snow.

I shake the dirt and snow from my skirts and coat, and, once done, my lord again sets out. I can do naught but follow, though I know not his purpose. It seems he has one, for his stride is sure and I am hard put to keep pace. Soon, should we follow the bend of the hillside, we shall leave all sign of our folk behind.

And so it is, for we walk in silence until all about us is still and lonesome. There my lord halts of a sudden, his breath a mist upon the air.

"Lady," I hear and turn to find my lord looking upon me. His voice is clear and low when he speaks. "Look about you."

And so I do. Dark are the shadows beneath the forest upon my right, high is the slope upon my left, and behind there is only snow and an open sky. At a sound behind me, I twist about violently. The rush of snow ends in an abrupt crackling of bracken and leaves, and the branches of a pine jostle about for the weight they have unloaded. Such a short distance for my lord, yet I have ne'er been so far upon the bounds of the Angle as this.

"Be still a moment and listen."

I do as I am bid, quieting my breath so I no longer hear it rushing from my lips. A distant cawing breaks upon the world and then all is still. Faint, I hear the wind as it brushes cold ground but naught of the Angle can I hear. No baaing of sheep, sound of voice raised in call, or lowing of oxen do I hear, and faintly, faintly still, upon my right hand hear I the racing of water. It is the Methithiel, the great river that flows upon our western bounds. I have never seen it, but it looms e'er large in our stories as guardian and gateway to our lands about Arnor. I could not feel more small and lost in a world of white and wind and cold.

"I would have you sit upon the Council, not lingering about its edges unbidden."

_Ai!_

I take a breath and then another ere I can speak. "What would you have me do there, my lord?"

"I wish you to listen and, have you aught to say, I wish you to speak it."

Such a simple task my lord would make it sound, and yet an uneasy weight settles itself in the pit of my belly.

"Aye, my lord," I say, for I dare say naught else.

He falls quiet and I know not what to think of his mood. He stares out upon where the sky falls to the net of barren trees, his face solemn in his study of the shadows that grow beneath their limbs. Truly, I know not what he looks for there. To my eye, the spread of open land and sky provides little solace, for all it seems to know or care of the world of Men.

"Shall we return?"

My lord turns to me a look of grave pity, for he has been watching and I must wonder what he saw playing upon my face.

"Aye, my lord," I say, but with little eagerness, for I do not think I shall find the Angle the same as when I left it.

~oOo~

I sit upon a bench beside my lord at his table and try mightily to still my hands. They, with lack of aught better to do, play upon the cloth of my skirts or clasp my fingers so tightly the blood floods their tips, for my lord will allow me naught but to sit beside him and attend to the Council. In my stead, he commands Elesinda to pour the ale and lay out the food I reserved. She does it well, but I find my fingers twitch and my shoulders tighten as she makes her rounds about the table.

At the least, I am spared the worry of the proper making of Elder Maurus' tea, for the old man has begged our lord forgive his absence and has taken himself to his bed. And now I find I miss his voice, for the Elders sit about my lord's table, their voices subdued. Each man, I think, attempts to present their arguments in the most wholesome light now their lord is the one to listen to them.

My lord seems intent on hearing them out, but, it seems, grows impatient. His face may be somberly attentive, but his fingers flick in a dismissive gesture ere he schools them to stillness and, atimes, he lets loose a quiet breath and shifts in his chair. Much goes unsaid, lurking behind polite words. Such would not be the case should Master Maurus have been among them. Though a vexation, his mishearings, complaints, and dark forecasts would have needled them into revealing what lay behind their carefully maintained show of prudence.

"And where would you have them, Elder Bachor?" my lord asks, his gaze coming swiftly upon the man who has been speaking.

The man in question falls silent of a sudden. I am not surprised. Having been the object of such keen study, I know the feeling well. I think my lord wishes the man to be done with his feigned impartiality in the Council's decision and commit himself.

I have listened and in listening I have made great effort to consider my lord's words. Aye, Master Bachor holds much of the respect of the Angle. He sits at my lord's table, dressed in his long, split tunic of wine-colored wool worked about its hem and shoulders with thread and light fur. All about him speaks of ease but the hands that clasp upon themselves and the thumb that worries upon his knuckles. Ever and anon his glance comes upon me, only to flick away swiftly. I am a worry to him and, now, a distraction upon the Council. And indeed, he should be troubled.

Aye, the Council has taken up the question of the harvest of next year, and long and sullen has been its debate. We have waded through deciding where and how much new land to assart come the spring and how to spread the days-work of the men upon them, and are done with these. We come now to the question of granaries, for we had too few upon last fall's harvest and much grain was spoiled for its improper storing. There is little point, then, to increasing the Angle's yield in the coming year should we not account for its storage.

"Well, my lord," Master Bachor says, his face a study of disinterest. "There is good land for it just north of Elder Tanaes' pasture." He nods to the butcher, whose broad face tightens at the thought. "'Tis high land and well-drained and flat, and I think its owner willing. 'Twould serve well for as many or as large a granary as you could wish. We could store there all the grain from the unclaimed fields worked in the Angle's name."

Elder Tanaes, for once, does not take up argument with Master Bachor. He looks to my lord and remains silent. I know the place of which Master Bachor speaks, and so do the Elders. 'Tis upon the eastern margins of his own lands and held by one of the half-virgaters who owes a debt to the man. Master Bachor was generous, and I doubt the debtor will ever be able to repay him in full.

It seems not only I unsettled for this, for, at length, the Elders burst into comment.

"All in one place?" I hear and turn to find Elder Landir the owner of that voice, a lean man with skin much as the leather he works.

"Could be a good, 'twill be easier to manage that way, would it not?"

"Should it be on his land, Elder Bachor, then shall he be the one to manage the stores?"

"You have not asked it of him yet, have you Bachor?"

"I trust not the wisdom of central stores, my lord."

The men fall silent, for it is my voice that speaks this last.

By the fine brush of wool and creak of wood, I know the Council restive as they attempt to make sense of this new thing. Ah! I must not let them distract me, though my heart beats so and their gaze burns upon me.

"I know not an I trust any with the management of it, should they be widespread, either. Too much to go missing." I hear but am unsure of the speaker. I look only to my lord.

"Ah, my lord, clearing land for many smaller granaries seems but a misuse of our time. Should not lesser work go into the greater gain? One larger granary would suffice, would it not?" Bachor asks, his hands have now stilled and his eyes have settled keenly upon me.

But my lord returns my gaze and speaks not, paying little heed to the Council.

"Lady?"

"Aye, my lord, it will take more work at the first," say I, speaking only to him. "But, I deem it would be work well repaid."

"How so?"

"My lord, it would take but one ill thing to cripple us, otherwise. One fire, one disease, one flood, one predation, and many will go hungry. Our most vulnerable will die for it."

Master Bachor speaks then, breaking my lord's gaze upon me. "Should you dot the village with smaller granaries, my lady, how would you set to managing them? Who shall say shall be fed from them and how much given and when?"

The men of the Council look upon me steadily. I think they, too, uncertain of my thoughts.

"I think it best they manage their own," I say to my lord, as were it he that had asked me alone.

"Meaning those of the wanderers, my lady?" Bachor asks.

"Aye."

At this, his face falls into disquiet lines and a harsh light shines in his eyes that he will not drop from me through I refuse to look at aught else but my lord beside me.

"You are not satisfied?" my lord asks when it seems that neither his wife nor the Elder across the table from him will speak.

At this, Master Bachor returns my lord's look and sighs at the question.

"The House is quick to take up the cause of the wanderers, is it not?" he asks.

"Should she not?"

"Forgive me, my lord, but I find it a relief that my lady had but one house to give, or she might be tempted to make free to give lands and home and increase the number of fires of the Angle without bringing it to their attention after, much less first consulting the Council on this matter as is our custom. Does not the House honor the will of the Council in the justice of the Angle?"

I know not what defense to give, for my lord sits still in his chair and does not look to me. Aye, I have come to know that cold silence for what it is. 'Tis displeasure. My eyes burn at the thought and I must drop their gaze for fear of shedding tears afore the Council. _Ai! Insufferable man, that he would twist what I did about and make it a shameful act. Only he would see it so. _ No doubt my lord now deeply regrets his choice to set me upon the Council beside him.

And yet when my lord speaks, his voice is calm and measured. "How came this custom to be?"

"We had a matter in this regard come afore the Council," says Master Bachor, "and there was the precedent set."

Only now does Tanaes speak, and his voice is mild. "Aye, 'twas that one matter."

"One?" my lord asks. "And that alone?"

None of the Council deny it.

"Then it is hardly a custom, is it?" my lord asks. "Should you wish guidance on these matters, would this not then be a matter for the hallmoot to determine? Let the custom of the Angle be the Angle's to decide."

Oh, but the sinews of my face are stiff, for I dare not smile. I pinch at the soft skin beneath the crook of my arm, hoping the pain will dull my joy.

"And should the hallmoot decide to increase the number of granaries upon the Angle, I would then ask should they amend our charter. I see no need to raise the House's tithes nor its portioning of vote upon the Council upon an increase of such. 'Twas not the intent of the charter at the first and I see no need to distort its meaning now. Would that satisfy you, Elder Bachor?"

"Aye, my lord, it would," he says grimly.

"Very well, then," my lord goes on to say. "I should hope you wish not to take upon yourself the management of the whole Angle, Masters," my lord goes on to say. "I would dare not. Nor would I wish upon any one man the management of dispersing all the miles of unclaimed land about the Angle or such a large portion of our harvest. I do not know how you wish to spend your days, but, truly, I am unwilling to court such tedium or force it upon another."

The Elders burst into smiles and I hear Elder Tanaes' deep chuckling from where he sits at the far end of the table. Master Bachor has the grace to look thoughtful.

"Come, now. Have we done?" my lord asks, his voice both weary and amused. "Shall we not put the question of how our folk who seek refuge here may claim land to the people of the Angle at the next hallmoot? And find from them those who are willing to hold the granaries upon their crofts and be accountable to the Council?"

"Are we done?" he asks, looking about the table.

"Aye, 'tis done," says Elder Tanaes as he rises, his voice deep and warm.

"My thanks to you, then, for your work on the Angle's behalf. Bid you good even," my lord says and the Elders rise and make their farewells.

I put my hands to the table to push myself up from the bench, for I would go to the door to hand the men their cloaks and ease their departure, but my lord's hand comes quick upon my knee to still my attempt to rise. With a look and a jerk of his head, he sends Elesinda, who has lingered about the hearth, to attend to the men. He then returns the Council's farewells with a cool solemnity but is otherwise silent.

"There, lady," he says, when the last has gone. He releases a soft breath and lays his shoulders upon the back of the chair, his finger come up to play upon the short hairs about his lip.

I must speak, though my belly feels cold and heavy for it.

"My lord?"

"Aye, lady," he says, and his hand falls to the rest.

"Forgive me, my lord. When I gave my home and lands to Sereg and his kin, I had not thought it through to its end. 'Twas my imprudence that caused you discomfort."

"Ah, lady," he says. He cuts short his sigh in a wry laugh. "Do not take the policies and politics of the Council too gravely to heart. It is not by the force of will of one man alone by which the Dúnedain shall stand fast against the Nameless One. Neither yours nor Elder Bachor's. In the great reach that is time and the lands of Arda, what matter it should we come through to peace by one man's hand or another?"

Mayhap he meant his words as comfort, but I feel all the smaller, as were I standing again upon the rim of the Wild.

"My lord, how shall I do this thing you ask of me?"

"Halbarad shall attend with you at first, or shall I, and from us shall you learn." "Though," he goes on with a smile, "I am but a lowly apprentice in the shadow of the Lord of Imladris in these matters. You have not had the pleasure of seeing Master Elrond at his councils."

"Worry not so, lady," he says after some time in which I ponder his words.

My lord's confidence may yet be inspiring, but rather lacking in specifics. I think this must play upon my face for my lord's look grows amused.

"Your one failing, lady," he says, and when he finds me glancing warily at him hastily adds, "should you have one, would be you feel the urge to act wherever and whenever you see the need."

"When I am gone, you serve as a symbol of my presence here," he says. "To you, lady, the folk will look for their care, and so they should. It is not in me to advise you to check the generosity of your heart, but to remember: I am the lord of the Dúnedain, all the Dúnedain, and my justice and good-will must fall upon its folk equally, even upon Elder Bachor." This last he delivers with a stern look.

"Aye, my lord," I say and cast down my eyes.

"You shall know what to do," he urges me again in his gentle voice. "Lend them your ear. Listen, lady, and your path will become clear. Do not worry so that you lack in skill or knowledge, for you must first listen with your heart, and only then with your head." My lord points a finger at my breast in emphasis.

"Come," he says, and his hands clap down sharply upon the rests of his chair and he pushes himself to rising. "Mayhap you have the will to seek more speech than we have already had to endure today, but I tire of thinking. I would have a smoke, some food, and then, later, my bed, and we should call Halbarad back from whatever he has found to amuse himself."

My lord's hand comes beneath mine to lift me from my seat. And though the weight of apprehension lies heavy upon my mind, the warmth of my lord's touch lends me some strength, I think, to bear it. And so I rise and we go each to our tasks that remain us.

~oOo~


	19. Chapter 18

~ Chapter 18 ~

_The Company now gathered together as close to the cliff as they could. It faced southwards, and near the bottom it leaned out a little, so that they hoped it would give them some protection from the northerly wind and from the falling stones. But eddying blasts swirled round them from every side, and the snow flowed down in ever denser clouds._

FOTR: The Ring Goes South

~oOo~

_~ TA 3008, 20th day of Nénimë: Charges: 18 ells of thick wool of the color of wine, well fulled. Equal length of thin strips of soft leather. Two dozen and six rabbit pelts. Discharges: 7 silver pennies to Elder Landir for the rabbit pelts and leather. One hood of black wool lined with sheared lambskin provided by Master Lorn, worked about the shoulders in knotwork with cream thread. _

~oOo~

"Nay, lady, stay abed," my lord says low when the frame creaks beneath my attempts to part the drapes and join him.

Winter rugs hang afore the closed shutters and, though 'tis morning, so early is the hour I see not even the faintest hint of sun trickling in behind them. My lord has left his bed to take his leave and now stands at the tall chest, rising from the bowl set there. He has pulled on his hose, breeches, and boots, and bends to the water to lave his face and breast ere dressing. I marvel that the chill does not prickle his skin, for the heat from the hearth has leached from the solar, drifting away through the thatch during the night.

I wish not to think of my lord upon the Wild in such weather, for I fear the storms that blow in of a sudden on winds wet from the seas. A sky white with whirring flakes of snow and air so cold it feels as knives driven into the lungs, and, shall the Valar be kind, the best of which he can hope is to stumble upon some cave in which he may shelter. Should the snow not fall, still how cheerless and cold shall be his nights.

Even in the shelter of his house, here behind the heavy drapes that enclose the bed and beneath blankets of thick wool, I shiver in the darkest hours of winter. So aloft in the air is the solar, it seems as were we living upon a nest in the highest tree's limbs and catch the night's chill wind unfettered.

Mayhap it was my pulling upon the blankets that awoke my lord. In my drowse I had thought to build myself a tight nest of wool to warm me. In vain was the very attempt, for had I my wits full about me, I would know it should only fail and I might just as well curl upon myself in a ball and will myself back to sleep.

"You are cold," my lord had said, his voice sharp with surprise and somewhat of dismay.

I had wished to reply, but my lord drew me against his breast and wrapped the blankets and his arms about me.

"Hist, sleep now," he said low against my head when I made to speak, his face burrowed in my loosely bound hair.

And, with the warmth of his body upon me, I complied. I dreamt of banked coals of a great hearth glowing with a golden light near painful to look upon and marveled at what will kept them from bursting to flame.

Mayhap another wife would have roused herself and warmed her husband in return. But I did not.

Oh, do not think I do not desire my lord and husband. As in taking me to wife, he had been both resolute and attentive when first taking me to bed. Well do I remember it. But, well, too, do I recall the fleeting glimpse of grief I saw in his face when his resolve to fulfill his vows at last overcame his reluctance. So swiftly banished it was I would think myself deceived, but too many nights had I to ponder such things.

Even now, in my sleep, I wondered. Should I brush my fingers upon the lids of his eyes and down the line of his nose, or press a kiss to the corner of his mouth where lip and cheek meet, what would my lord make of it? Should I burden him with a yearning he had not wished from me?

It was only later, when the sky lightened upon the far reaches of the mountains, my lord, with caresses and softly whispered words, gentled his wife from her sleep. And indeed, then, was I well warmed.

Were my lord not to leave, I would gladly stay abed as he commands. There I would hoard my memories of the moments ere he rose to dress himself as defense against the days in which his bed was sure to be colder for his absence. But I dare not follow him down the stairs dressed in no more than my shift when his men sleep about the hearth so close I might trip o'er them. Yet I would see my lord given farewell, no matter the hour of his leaving.

So, I throw a wrap about my shoulders and pay no heed to the sharp look my lord turns upon me. Indeed, a draft runs upon the floor and I shiver ere sitting on the bed-frame and tucking my feet into my shoes.

"Lady," he says, drying himself off, "the bed is warm and you might have yet another hour of sleep ere your day begins. I have all prepared and there is no need for your rising. Will you not stay abed?"

"Aye, my lord." I come about the bed and set aside his shirt, tunic and other gear that lie upon the long chest at its end so I may kneel afore it.

"For what do you search?" he asks and hangs the towel upon its hook when I lift the heavy lid and move aside linens, my wool and linen dresses and his lady mother's silks. I have hidden it well, mayhap too well. By the light of the sole rushlight my lord has lit I can little tell one dark color from another. My hand lights upon silken thread. Ah! There it is!

When I rise with it clutched to my breast, my lord looks upon me, frowning mildly. I find, to my surprise, I greatly enjoy the look of mirth and vexation mixed upon my lord's features and so wish only to draw out the mystery.

"What have you there?" he asks and nods to the bundle of black linen in my hands.

The cloth is yet stiff, though I have washed it after the making in hopes it would soften some. I doubt not a suspicion forms clearly in his mind. He has little need to ask.

"It is your gift in farewell, my lord."

"I would have thought the gift you gave me already this morn enough."

True it is, the gift he had asked of me ere he rose from our bed had been sweet but was not the one I had planned. I had not known the moment I should give it to him, and so had delayed until the last.

"Mayhap, my lord," say I and quell the apprehension that rises swiftly from my belly.

I shake out the folds of the cloth and reveal it to be a man's shirt. I think the shirt he has laid out must be a castoff he begged from another, for the sleeves are too short and the neck does not come to a close as it should. I would not have him wear such a poor thing, but he has clothed himself as he sees fit and I know not his temper should I meddle with it. And then there is this, the making of a man's clothes is an intimate thing, oft the first gift of bride to her betrothed. No matter our shared bed, I know not his temper should I tread too near his heart.

My lord frowns and runs a hand upon the fine smocking about the head of the sleeves and his eyes take in the needlework about the neck.

"You crafted this for me, lady?"

"Aye, my lord," I say and, when he yet hesitates, I bite at my lip. "Will you not wear it, my lord?"

"Aye, gladly," says he, his eyes coming up swiftly to mine. Taking it from my hand, he pulls it on o'er his head, settling its length about him and shaking out the sleeves.

With a critical eye, I pull the neck closed, smoothing the placket upon my lord's breast and swiftly knotting its ties ere tugging the cloth upon his shoulders. Aye, it hangs well and the sleeves come down to his knuckles. Should my lord want them shorter, he has but to tie the cords about his wrists. Through all this, I lose sight of my lord, though he watches me silently. The rustle of my hands upon the cloth and the creak of the boards beneath my feet as I move are all I hear.

"Does the fit satisfy you, lady?"

I look up to find my lord gazing upon me, his eyes alight. With that, my hands fly from his shoulders and, I am afraid I blush and drop my eyes as I step back. Mayhap I have been too free with my lord's person.

"Aye, my lord."

"And how did you happen to know its measure?"

I must bite again at my lip without knowing it, for my lord laughs.

"I wondered what was become of it," says he and I know he speaks of the over-worn shirt I stole from his belongings. 'Twas but by its length and breadth I knew to shape my lord's farewell gift to fit him.

"Forgive me, my lord, I should not have taken the liberty of interfering with your belongings."

"Calm yourself, lady," says he and reaches for his tunic and long coat. "I do not regret it. In truth, I had secretly hoped that rag gone for good." He smiles and settles the tunic about him, tying it closed and easing his arms into his coat. "I can repair what I rend in the wearing, but I think it long since had passed beyond my skill."

"_My thanks to thee._ It is fine and sturdy work, lady," he says and, once he has tied his belt about him, lays his hands upon me, drawing them lightly down my arms.

I lay a soft touch to the line of needlework upon the base of my lord's throat. 'Tis all that can be seen of fine linen and the pleasant working of thread beneath my lord's rough gear. I withdraw my hand.

"I would I had made somewhat for you to wear more warm and less fine, my lord."

"Worry not so," he says gently. "I shall find pleasure in the wearing."

"And now has come the time for me to leave, lady." He lets his hands fall from my arms.

"Aye, my lord," say I, and turn so my lord might pass afore me. I follow his slow stride to the stairs.

"Should you have need, you have but to ask my kin for aid. I leave him here with the charge of your welfare as well as that of the Angle's."

"Aye, my lord."

"And shall you continue to attend the Angle's councils with Halbarad in my absence?"

"As it please you, my lord."

He halts at the head of the stairs and turns swiftly to me, looking upon me with his eyes with their keen light.

"It would please me better should you do it of your own will, lady."

"Aye, my lord. I shall do it," I say and I think him satisfied, for his look softens.

"Very well. _Should I not return upon the days of Loëndë, I shall send thee word when to expect me. _Will that give you ease, lady?"

"Aye, my lord."

"I take my leave, then, lady, and wish you good health and that the days of waiting may not be a burden upon you."

"My lord," I say and look not into the eyes that bear their grave pity upon me. "_May the Valar keep thee in their care. May they guide thy feet upon safe paths and confound the eyes of thine enemies. May they see thee safely home."_

And thus was my lord gone again. I saw him not at the days of _Loëndë_ when the folk of the Angle place circlets of flowers upon their children's hair and the air is sweet with their scent, and not soon thereafter, either.

Oft it was thus. My lord came and went from his House, unbidden and unheralded, though never unexpected or unwelcome. Ever great need called him from one end of Eriador to the other. Yet he ever sent word when he would be delayed past what his foresight told upon our parting. And so our lives went. Under sun, wind, rain and snow the seasons swept behind us.

~oOo~


	20. Chapter 19

~ Chapter 19 ~

_There were, however, dwarves on the road in unusual numbers. The ancient East-West Road ran through the Shire to its end at the Grey Havens, and dwarves had always used it on their way to their mines in the Blue Mountains. They were the hobbits' chief source of news from distant parts – if they wanted any: as a rule dwarves said little and hobbits asked no more. But now Frodo oft met strange dwarves of far countries, seeking refuge in the West. They were troubled, and some spoke in whispers of the Enemy and of the Land of Mordor._

FOTR: The Shadow of the Past

~oOo~

_~ TA 3009, 21__st__ day of Lótessë: Eighteen lambs of fourteen ewes. Most between 3 to 7 marks in weight. One breech. Two born small and died soon after. One from a yearling mother but the other aged five years and had strong lamb twins the year afore. One lamb sacrificed to spare the ewe and birth their twin. No loss of ewes. _

~oOo~

Ah, but the wool of my lord's dower is a pleasure to work. Its fibers are long and my hands grow soft for the grease that clings to them. Here in the cool shadows of the shed, I have laid the fleece upon a slatted table and am joined by a granddam of the wandering clans. She clucks and hums as, together, we skirt the last of this spring's shearing, pulling away tags of matted hair about the neck and flanks and plucking dried grasses and dirt from betwixt its fibers. She seems much pleased with the task, newly come as she is to the Angle and newly bereft of her own flock in the journey hither. I have promised her a lamb from this spring's birthing should she help skirt, wash, and card the fleeces for me.

Late am I in getting to the work come from our shearing, for the cares of the Angle take much of my time. We have wintered well, though our surplus from good harvests past dwindles to naught. In the last, our stores were strained for our ever-increasing numbers, but at the least the management of the granaries is no longer under dispute. For indeed did the Angle decide.

'Twas early last spring, when the sun rose cool and the meadows glittered beneath its light as were it gilt with a fine dust of gold, the folk of the Angle stood beneath the old oak upon the edge of my lord's pasture. And Halbarad, seated in his kin's place, put the question to the hallmoot. 'Tis no longer the custom of the Angle for the Council to decide the apportioning of new land, for the folk of the Dúnedain saw no need for it. What a man worked, he would first share of its yield and then might hold. And should it not cause harm to his fellows, he might build upon the land home and croft. Should contention arise, then they would have the Council intercede, but not afore. A stiff-necked people are the Dúnedain, and I took great pride in them.

For my trust in his impartiality, I assigned Master Herdir the management of the granaries and allowed him day's-work owed my lord's House with which to do it. In his turn, he brought a man of the wandering folk of the south to my lord's hall. He claimed a good measure of understanding of husbandry, and well I believed it. For with his blue eyes as small points of light within weathered skin and a light brown cloud of uncombed and unwashed hair and beard, he looked nigh as wild as the beasts and seemed to prefer their company. He mumbled a few words to me, touching upon his brow oft though never raising his eyes. But I did not protest, for I had seen to the first spring's lambing of my own and found myself nodding to sleep in the midst of Councils and laying my head upon my sewing table for what I hoped was a simple moment of rest only to awaken deep in the night. Glad was I my lord late in his return, for I could get naught done and feared, even should he wish to turn his attentions to me, I would fall deep into slumbers in the midst of it.

True to his word, come the summer and through the fall, the wandering woodsman shepherded the flock, moving them from pasture to pasture ere the land grew wild with thistle for their love of the less prickly grasses, and filled their rick with hay for them to eat and lay straw upon the floor for their bed come the winter. He would baa at the ewes and they would bleat back, his favorites trotting about behind him when he visited them in the barnyard, but I have yet to learn his name. He came to take on the care of sheep, whatever horse might bring visitors to the House, and a small herd of pigs that arrived with much mystery and he sent beneath the eaves of the wood to root for acorns. In return, he ate of the food prepared for his lord's table and was given, for his good, sturdy clothing, fuel for his hearth, and grain, butter, and greens for his pantry. For my good, I offered him a bath ere every second day of rest.

And thus my lord's House increased and prospered. He would return to it, ever and anon, worn, dirty and far too thin for my taste. And then the hall would ring with the voices of his men, oft until the deep hours of the night. When he was home, my lord and I settled into a routine, I tending to the house and its people, he seeing to the needs of the Angle or in councils with his Rangers. When not out of doors my lord was much occupied in their reports and ordering their coming and going. And when the weather permitted, he supervised the men in the clearing of the grounds of brush and weeds and upkeep of the sheds. Oft, he himself would bend to the task. My lord's mood is much improved by the sense of purpose and his sleep much improved by the labor.

I saw little of my lord during the day, but our evens we spent together in the hall while Halbarad and his men were about. Most oft, when the even's meal was cleared away and the bread was set to rise for the morning, I joined my lord in the hall for our last hours and there, for the sake of my own sleep, attempted to forget what I had left undone. There I spun my wool afore the hearth, the spindle dangling above the floor as the roving fed the thin threads. Were I not spinning, I tackled the tedious work of re-establishing the sheds of my loom, tugging at the warp and retying the jangling weights until I could lift the heddle rod and the warp pulled away evenly.

My lord oft rested himself as I worked. He lay upon a bench by the fire, flat upon his back with his hair falling from his brow and hand clutching his clay pipe to his breast. There, he stared for long hours at the play of firelight upon the ceiling and sent thin streams of smoke into the rafters. His thoughts played across his face, some so grim that a fell fire kindled deep within his eyes, some so bleak I marveled that he did not weep, and others so merry that I could not help but smile myself. He told me naught of them. I suppose the habit of silence in a Ranger is hard to break.

In our silence, I heard each creak of protesting wood as he shifted his weight upon the bench and crackle of burning leaf when he drew hard upon his pipe. Surely, too, he heard the warp weights chiming as small, dull bells and the clatter of the wood of the heddle rod upon its supports. At times, I looked up across the fire to find I had drawn my lord's gaze. He would watch as I first set the spindle to whirring and then my fingers meet above it only to pull apart and turn fluffs of wool into a spider's web. He attended as would a small child, enchanted into silence by its simple, repetitive magic. These times were within my mind's reach. But, other times, I would find his eyes upon me, his face grave. He watched not what I was doing, but he looked upon me. These times I knew not his mind and wondered what lay in his thoughts.

But I soon came to learn the signs of his thoughts when they turned to leaving. A certain tightening of the mouth and a distant shadow in his eyes, and I knew he would soon take his farewell, reassuming the cares of his people upon shoulders.

Once the House broke of its fast this morn, I made my way to the open shed where housed the flock. There I found the spring's lambs in a softly heaving huddle of wool, piled as they were one atop the other to best sleep within the spill of light. Their mothers stood about them, scattered through the low shed with their eyes shuttered and ears swept back in contentment, worrying at their cud. They shall soon weary of being penned and shall bleat and hang about the gate. But I dare not set them to pasture just yet.

Water drips from where wool hangs in a hammock of thin linen, there drying after its washing, the faint sound of bleating of lambs and answering calls of their mothers comes distantly through the wall, and our feet scuff lightly upon the hard dirt as we circle the table. Just beyond the shade in which we work, the world is bright and green, and a squirrel barks from the overhanging limbs of the chestnut tree. I pluck at a burr, worrying it out of the fleece.

"Have you made your choice of lamb yet, Mistress?"

"Ah, that I have not, my lady," the old woman says and shakes her fingers free of clinging fibers. "For have you not more ewes to give birth?"

I smile. "So you would have the whole field from which to choose, then?"

"Aye, of course, my lady," she says, her hazel-brown eyes shine when she looks upon me. "Though, no matter its sires, I have no doubt it will be the lamb that makes free to sniff out my hands and suffers me to lay them upon its back that will make my decision for me."

"My lady?"

When I look up it is to find a youth in Ranger's clothing just beyond the shade of the shed. He it is the son of one of my lord's men whom Halbarad has taken in to train in his father's stead. He ducks his head to peer beneath the thatch. He has bitten his nails down to the quick and now fingers the hilt of his sword. Beyond him I see Master Bachor.

The old woman returns to her work, the grasses and twigs not occupying her nigh so much as cutting her eyes at the man who stands behind the youth with an air of studied patience.

"Master Bachor prays he might have a word with you, my lady, and Elesinda begs I tell you Master Dwalin has arrived and awaits you in the hall," the youth says.

It seems he might have more to say, but Master Bachor, declining to wait my permission, pushes past him with a determined smile. The thatch rustles as he lifts it aside and enters. The youth is none so sure of the man's forwardness, I think, for, though he steps a pace away, he eyes Master Bachor warily and lingers where he may yet watch.

"_Good morrow_, Mistress," Master Bachor says to the granddam and smiles upon her.

She may have the high cheeks and bronzed skin of the folk of the Randírim clan herself, but it does him no favors. Her hands never leave off her work and she does not even nod in return.

It is then he turns to me and, with a soft smile, says, _"It is good to see thee so well, Sister._" The mistress' glance flicks from Master Bachor to me.

At this, my spine has stiffened as had it been made of cold iron. He may think he has caught me in as fine a trap as could be made, here under the eye of the folk of the Angle, but I am no child to be ensnared by smug smiles and honeyed words. I do not sell my good graces for so thin a price.

"Can you finish here?" I ask the mistress.

"Aye," she says and shuffles into Master Bachor in her round about the slatted table, so he must back away to allow her freedom to do her work. He seems not to mind but returns my glare with a look as resolute as my own.

"Would you walk me to the house, Master Bachor?" I ask, and he inclines his head and motions me forward.

A step, two, and three we take in silence, he courteously by my side and me scrubbing at my hands with my apron.

"I am not your sister, Master Bachor. Do not refer to me as such," I say once we are clear of the shed and Halbarad's youth has taken up his place beyond where our shadows lengthen behind us.

"No?" he asks, his voice deliberately mild. "You once called me brother."

"That time is long past," I say, to which he purses his lips and nods grimly, as had he expected to hear as much. And 'tis true, we had not parted on good terms when last I stood afore his hearth.

I think him done, then, for our silence is broken only by the thrash of grasses against our boots as we walk.

"And so, you continue to bear me ill will."

"I bear you naught that is not well-earned."

At this, he stops of a sudden and turns to me, all pretense at polite indifference abandoned as his mouth works to contain what might spill forth and he shakes his head.

"I loved her, Nienelen," he says and somewhat sad and fierce passes briefly in his eyes.

"But not enough."

"That is a lie!"

"Is it?"

"Your sister was not one to be easily gainsayed, and you know it."

"She would have denied you nothing!"

"I did not ask it of her. She would have it – "

"You knew how ill she was when she lost your first," I hiss. "You knew she was not to quicken so early after, but you would not leave her alone."

"She would have it no other way!" he shouts, throwing wide his hands. "Forgive me, Nienelen, I loved her, but your sister would never permit anyone to alter her path once her mind was set. Even you, she would ever have in her shadow, for –"

"You forget yourself, sir!"

I find I cannot draw in breath fast enough, my breast heaving as had I run the distance instead of walked. Tears prick at my eyes, but I will not permit them to fall. He, in turn, has turned away, and rubs mightily at his face ere drawing his hands from brow to the tips of the dark curls that lay about his shoulders. I doubt not that he has caught sight of the youth, his sword, and his terrified but grim look.

"Forgive me, my lady," he says, when done.

Here he lowers his voice, though not its intensity in tone. He stabs at the earth beneath my feet as he speaks.

"I had a wife, and she was young and fair and I would have plumbed the depth of the ancient seas to find the last Silmaril had she asked it of me. And aye, she and the babe she carried died untimely. Yet I was not allowed the care of her body nor the selection of her resting place among our dead. You had a hand in that. I know it."

He draws a great breath ere continuing. "So, forgive me, my lady, unlike the other men of the Council, I will not make the mistake of underestimating you."

I shake so that I know not were my feet yet planted upon the good green earth or should the warmth of the sun yet shine upon me.

"Speak to Master Dwalin," he says, stepping back. "Once you have heard what he has to say, mayhap my lady would reconsider her stubbornness and we could lay aside our differences for the good of the Angle. Should you wish to speak to me of somewhat other than revisiting old wounds between us, I would welcome you again in my house."

With that, he turns and leaves me in the midst of the tall grass upon my lord's pasture, to make my own way to the house.

My arms had come of themselves to cross upon my breast and I must release their hold by an effort of will. I fumble at the ties binding my apron about my middle as I walk, and I must rip at them. They fly with the effort and their knotted ends whip about and land with stinging blows upon my arms. Still I walk and beat my apron into folds against my thighs.

Long had their betrothal been, and merry had been the feast of their marriage. The table had groaned with a roast pig piled high with oranges, lemons, and sugared figs from the south, and Dorwinian wines from the east, for the groom had spared no expense in the pursuit of his bride. She had laughed and seen it for what it was but loved him for it all the same. They plied each other with wine and sweets and dancing until the heady mix of drink and thoughts of the night afore them collapsed them into one chair together. There they tasted more of each other than the food set afore them.

And yet, for all the joy at its beginning, their marriage was come to this.

As I had not accepted his invitation of place among his kin when my father died and I was left bereft of role and support, I am unsure what would make me take up his offer now.

Glad am I that I had yet some distance to walk to myself. I have a duty to perform in the service my lord. I would not bring my grief to my lord's hall and I dare not make him a cold welcome, so dependent are we on my guest.

And so, when I come into the hall through the great door, the sight of the dwarf pacing easily about my hearth is as a soothing balm. There Elesinda lays meat upon the grill and he sniffs deeply of its smoke, a cup of ale clutched in his blunt fingers. The dwarf's eyes alight upon the table, chairs, windows, hangings, hearth and Elesinda tending to our meal above it, and a finely woven hood dangles from his hand afore him. I smile to see the clear green of its cord that I thought would compliment his hair so well. The smell of cooking meat is thick in the air and by the contentment upon his face, he seems to enjoy it.

"Master Dwalin!" I call as I stride into the hall and then halt to give him full greeting. He turns about swiftly and a smile comes upon his face so I see naught but the dark points of his eyes. "Welcome and well met!" say I. "It warms my heart to see you again."

"Ah! Lady Nienelen, a blessing upon your House and those who dwell therein." His hood dangles about his knees when he bows.

"Come!" I offer him a seat at my lord's table where he might be comfortable. "I see Elesinda has drawn you ale, will you not join me?"

"Naught would give me greater pleasure, my lady," he says, laying aside his hood upon the bench.

He seems to have passed the inspection of my young guard who followed me into the hall. The youth sits himself down upon a bench by the door, there to lean against the wall and remain watchful. I think mayhap he has taken Halbarad's instruction too greatly to heart, for he speaks not and shall not take even the cup of ale Elesinda offers him. And I know from past days, he will not sup with us, but take a plate and eat of it where he sits.

"I trust your journeys have given you no great hardship, Master Dwalin."

There we settle at the table and Elesinda comes with fresh linens and a bowl of water infused with the clean scent of vervain. For, by the smell rising from the hearth, our meal is nigh ready.

"Aye, well, we have had a few brushes with peril, my lady, -" says the dwarf. "Ah, my thanks to you, young miss." This last he says to Elesinda who, as he is our guest, offers him first use of the water. He plunges his fingers in the bowl, speaking all the while. "- as you will have should you travel upon the open road these days. But, should your lord be kind in his aid, most of our goods shall see their way to the Blue Mountains, and our folk, too."

"Aye, he left instruction for your safe passage," I say. The bowl now comes to me and I am glad to wash away the grease and bits of pasture clinging to a sheep's coat.

"Good!" he exclaims and finishes wiping at his hands. "I am much relieved to hear it. I feared the Shadow had laid its hand on your folk so heavy you'd not have the men for it."

Indeed, we can little spare them, but I know not whether it ill to say too much of our dependence upon the dwarf's trade or too little. For the dwarves who journey from mountain to mountain are our only source of much we ourselves cannot produce. Iron, copper and other metals we have little of. Salt we have none. We own no mines of any sort, and little means of carting what we need from the salt marshes of Harlond. Oh, we could do without the rest, the fine threads, the ornamented combs, the strange spices, the heavy Dorwinion wines, and the lighter wines from the south, but have we no salt the curing of our meats becomes greatly uncertain. Should we lack for it, more of our fall's slaughter might spoil over the winter than we might wish.

"It would be neither to your good nor ours to fail of your care. We are but an island upon the Wild, Master Dwalin, and you our bridge."

"Aye, well," he says, looking away. "Your Lord has always treated us fair."

At that, Elesinda lays the joint of meat upon the table, where it is swiftly joined by bread, wooden bowls of sharp-tasting cress and a pottage of rye and mushroom topped with a musty cheese. Were it not an insult, I would laugh at my guest, for he looks upon the meal as it were a dragon's hoard and the beast itself but newly vanquished.

"My lady," he begins and then falters. "You are too kind."

"And the road too lean, I take it."

"Oh, my lady, you do not know the half of it! Mile upon mile of eating cram and the dust from beneath our ponies' hooves!"

I laugh. "I hope you will find the fare at this table more to your taste, then, Master Dwalin."

"I have great hopes of it, my lady."

With that he tucks into the meal with a fair amount of fervor. And I have not the heart to distract him with my speech, nor make him put his mouth to aught use other than eating. But, as I eat, I find I cannot help but examine my guest's beard for the minute interweaving of braids. They weave beneath his chin to end in tassels of hair bound by beads of finely worked gold. Their paths baffle me.

'Tis not until Elesinda has cleared away the last of our meal, and Master Dwalin wipes at his mouth and sighs, I have gathered enough courage to speak of it.

"You have changed your beard, Master Dwalin."

"Ah, what is that? Oh, aye," he says and his face colors above his beard, the hair of which is a dark red thinned to a lighter hue by much white.

I think mayhap I have, in my stumbling, given grave offense to a son of Durin, for the dwarf's fingers come up to smooth the hairs about his lips and chin and he looks away.

"Forgive me, sir, I should not have made so free."

"Ah, Lady, 'tis naught. Do not fret so. None but another dwarf would know the meaning of the braids and need not ask. For, you see, Lady, I have got myself married."

"You have?"

"Aye, indeed, and a stout heart she is to bear with my absences. She waits for my return to the Blue Mountains. There we shall take up our lives together."

Naught of well-wishes and compliments do I think to give, so stunned am I. "Why! Master Dwalin!"

"Look here," he says, stirring to sudden movement. "I shall show you the way of it!" He casts about the room. "Have you any twine or scraps of aught you can spare?"

"A moment, good sir."

Rising swiftly from the table, I rummage through the basket beneath my loom and pull from it bobbins of yarns of differing hues. From what I offer, he measures lengths of the yarn, choosing his colors carefully and running them from thumb to nose, and then gives them an expert tug to snap the wool asunder.

"See here, now," he says, tying their ends together. "You need at least four good lengths. I shall show you with six, a right goodly number, I say."

I lean in and soon our heads incline together o'er his hands. His eyes are brightly twinkling points of light above his cheeks as first he looks upon me and then upon the threads.

"Or eight will do. My cousin Orlin can make a beautiful strap the size of your waist with naught but a dozen strips of leather. Just so long as you have an even number, mind! One to weft and the odd remainder for your warp. See? Thusly!"

His thick fingers make short work of the weaving and I watch intently. He speaks as he works, and I come to know much of the hidden meaning of the craft, the status and age of dwarf as knotted in his own beard and what designs distinguish dwarf maiden from matron. My guest is the most ardent of craftsmen.

I scowl at the yarn and turn my head to better see its path. "How do you keep the edge from turning upon itself and twisting?"

"It is easy enough. See here!"

He thrusts the bundle into my hands and I am put to winding the yarns about themselves to the pattern he had set. It is easier than I thought, for it mimics the weaving as were it upon the loom, but warp becomes weft and, in but one pass, weft winds to warp again.

"There, Lady, now you have the hand for it." Master Dwalin looks most pleased in his pupil and I smile for it. "Braid your husband's beard with this pattern," he says, beaming and tapping the table loudly with his broad forefinger, "and he shall know himself the envy of every man he meets."

I think of the futility of tugging upon the short hairs of my lord's beard and burst into laughter. "I think not, Master Dwalin!"

"Bah!" he says, catching my meaning and waving the notion away. "I do not understand Men! Why a man should shave the hair from his face so that he may appear as one of the Elves! Were you to ask me, lady, I should say, 'Fah!'" Here he makes a loud dismissive noise. "Let the Elves have their smooth cheeks! Would you know the real character of a man? You can tell it by his beard!"

"Ah! Well! Listen to me!" he says and settles back from where he had leaned excitedly o'er the table. "I have taken more of your time than I ought, Lady."

"And I should return to my folk," he goes on and rises from the bench. "They are sure to have done with their business."

And for a reason I knew not yet, he looked suddenly old and more than a little tired standing there and awaiting my farewell.

"I understand, sir Dwarf, though I regret you leaving so soon."

I rise with him and accompany him slowly to the great door. The youth is gone, for Elesinda had begged his aid carrying the kettle out of door where she might empty it.

"Is that my packet, Lady?" He nods to a bundle of oiled parchment sitting upon the chest by the door.

"Indeed." I take it up and hold it for a moment. "We rely much upon your kindliness, Master Dwalin," I say, for he does seem sorrowful and reluctant to leave, and I would give him reassurance.

And indeed we do rely upon him, for in the bundle are letters to our kin who settled in the lands about the Blue Mountains, of whom we have only word through Master Dwalin's generous conveyance of our writing as he passes back and forth across the Angle.

"Aye, well, Lady, there we come to it," he says and sighs. "Aye, I would not disappoint you, were it in my power. Ever have you and your House treated generously with us. Like as not, we would have abandoned the East-West route long ago were it not for the watchfulness and aid of your lord. But, it seems we come to an end of our travel upon the wider lands."

For a long moment it seems I do not comprehend plain speech, for his words make no sense to me. And then, they do, and my hearts sinks as a stone beneath cold waters.

"I am very sorry to hear that." And indeed I am, for my joy at his visit has drained from me.

"'Tis perilous, the road, as of late," he says and I hear, more clearly now, his quiet grief. "We have lost folk along the way. 'Twas just baggage we lost, afore. Your men, Lady, see to our safety once we come to the summit of the Misty Mountains, but their authority allows them no further down the pass upon the opposite side. Glad we are of their numbers, for we require their aid. But we cannot ask it of you to protect us where you do not go, yourselves. And I can no longer ask it of my folk, nor my wife."

_Ai_! What words could I possible use to counter such an argument.

"I regret I shall not see you again, Master Dwalin."

"Lady, I –," he begins and then halts. Forbearing speech, he then takes my hand and, having learned the custom at some point in his travels, bows gravely o'er it.

When he has released me, I offer the folded package. "Would you be so good as to take this one last time for me?"

"Aye, Lady, gladly." He lifts it from my hands and, with a little effort, it disappears into some dark fold inside his tunic.

"Shall you want your usual fee, Master Dwalin?" I ask, for I had prepared yet another hood made of bright and sturdy wool for him.

"No, Lady," he says. "Keep it and remember me kindly, should you will it."

I bow and then there is no more to say.

He, I watch until well and truly gone. 'Tis no wonder, then, Master Bachor, merchant and trader of both the finer things that fills the appetites of the folk of the Angle and the necessities that keep them fed and in comfort of body, would brave my displeasure to speak. Much of his mind, and his thought behind his increase in lands and the number of folk under his call in these past years, I think, becomes clearer. I am unsure how he knew it, but I doubt not he had long anticipated just this moment and would not suffer the loss of his status.

~oOo~


	21. Chapter 20

~ Chapter 20 ~

_'Him?' said the landlord in an answering whisper, cocking an eye without turning his head. 'I don't rightly know. He is one of the wandering folk – Rangers we call them. He seldom talks: not but what he can tell a rare tale when he has the mind. He disappears for a month, or a year, and then he pops up again. _

FOTR: At the Sign of the Prancing Pony

~oOo~

_~ 3009, 7__th__ day of __Urimë__: Three parts hot water poured upon well burnt wood ash and strained thrice, boiled until reduced and thick, then cooled. Add one part well-beaten beef tallow and sheep's milk simmered with pummeled bay leaf and strained, and a little wheat flour, and stir very well. Let them cook to thickness. Work with a little spade for up to four days._

~oOo~

I walk down the stairs, my fingers busy in my hair, twining the last of its sections into a braid. The sun rises dimly behind a screen of low clouds, but my feet know the way. In my mind I organize the day. The afternoon, it is clear, will be dedicated to thorny questions of how to convince the Council to yet again build more granaries and to forebear from eating all our harvest, for Halbarad has gone a-ranging upon the northern border of the Angle and shall not attend, and we come swiftly upon the year's harvest. Ah, mayhap I worry needlessly, but I have no way of knowing when they see reason easily and when the jostling among them for position will deafen their ears.

I would have time, too, to consider the problem that is Master Sereg. Aye, there is little discussed at the Council that does not make its way to the ears of the Angle. And so, much has been made of my defiance of the Council in the giving of my father's house, as too, much is known of Master Bachor's concerns about its role in increasing the House's power.

For I came upon Master Sereg yestermorn, there upon the market square at the days dawning. There he stood among cotters, women, and younger sons. Angle-born and wandered to it, alike, they held no land and awaited those who needed extra hands for the day's labor. Our folk increase and many lack a pledgeholder to assign their work to them. And so, should a ploughman or virgater chance upon them, they arose and crowded about him, raising their voices and calling out their willingness. This morn, they jostled against each other and when Master Sereg pushed to the fore, it was to be shoved back by Ploughman Gworon.

"Have you not had enough of the Angle's fortune?" I heard called.

_Ai!_ I am much acquainted with Master Gworon. He and his kin alone, apart from Master Bachor and his house, and I and my sister, with our dark skin and eyes bore the signs of descent from the wandering clans, though his connection was further distant than ours. We were much thrown together as children for it. It seems he resented it. And, after some time, I am afraid to say, we came to resent him in our turn.

I know not would it have come to blows, for they stilled at my voice.

"Enough of this!"

Those most close by fell still and turned. Their silence spread as a ring through the crowd until I felt every eye upon me and the youth of the Rangers assigned to his lord's wife's safety stepped to my side. He swallowed so thickly I could hear it.

"What is this?"

I received little by way of reply, for none would meet my eye, but stared at their feet with varying looks of shame and resentment. 'Twas not until Master Sereg spoke was the silence broken.

"'Twas naught, my lady," he said. "You should not trouble yourself."

He could not fail to see my disbelief, for he had delivered his plea in a flat voice and his eyes darted to the men aside him as he spoke.

"Truly, my lady," he went on. "'Twas my own clumsiness that is at fault. I am but ashamed for having caused you distress."

I could do naught, it seemed, but leave him to his answer, though it did little to satisfy either him, the men about him, or myself. For I have since learned this was not the first of such happenings and, though they give aid when they can, even few among his own wandering folk were willing to be seen much beside him for the quarrel his very presence drew.

These things, then, I must address, and soon, for the hallmoot shall come upon us all too swiftly. And then yet another family bereft of home and seeking the solace of the Angle has come among us. I have also to find shelter for them and can only hope it shall not cause them as much dismay as I have caused Master Sereg.

But, for now, the morning is my own. The loom stands empty in the hall, the weights gathered into their basket, for I tied off the rugs the even afore. A field of green leaves fenced in red and blue knotwork, they are. When the winds chill and the sun dims, I shall hang them o'er the shutters there, and I think the solar shall be the warmer for it. But now, they hang upon the solar wall, tickling my fingers with its thick wool as I brushed my hand upon it when I washed and prepared for the day.

Mayhap I shall dress the loom and begin another while I may yet enjoy the quiet of the house. A field of woad-blue the color of a summer's even, mayhap? Silver-gray for the star of the Dúnedain about its border to lie beneath my lord's feet and keep them warm when he sits? Mayhap a runner of linen of the same color for the table above? A long length of blue with stars upon the ends as they hang o'er the table's edge or shall they cluster about the middle? How many stars? Arthedain, Rhudaur, and Cardolan, aye, but to include the Southkingdom or no? Ah, the politics of such simple things. Mayhap it would be best to invoke the stars of the heavens than those of the lands below them.

So caught up in my thoughts am I that when the hall opens out about me I pause and blink at the unexpected sight. My lord is returned, but such is his state my soft footsteps have not wakened him. He lies curled upon his side upon the cushioned bench by the hearth, his cloak wrapped about him, sleeping heavily with his head resting on the crook of his arm. His gear lies scattered about him on the floor where he cast himself upon its surface, not waiting even to lay aside his knife, pull his boots from his feet, or draw his cloak from off his shoulders. Only his sword hangs secured in its place on the wall, carefully unbuckled from his belt. One look at the arm that lies tightly bound and tucked against his breast and I find my day planned for me.

I twist my hair into roll at the nape of my neck and wrap my scarf o'er it all while I pad softly across to the buttery. There I lift the cauldron from its hook, holding the handle upright so that it will not bang against the pot and ring like a bell. Though he sleeps deeply, my lord, of a habit, wakes easily at the slightest noise. Only when I have all prepared do I re-enter the hall, the cauldron swinging from my hand.

He has not moved, but, though I take care to make as little noise as I can, when I lay aside the turves and stir the ashes to awaken the fire, my lord draws in a swift breath and rises from where he lies. He sits clasping the edge of the bench to steady himself, his eyes wary until he comes to see me and the hall in which he collapsed.

"_Thy House welcomes thee home, my lord_," I say and turn aside to lay kindling upon the hearth.

He rubs at his face and greets me solemnly. "Lady."

Tongues of flame lick greedily at the wood as I lay the logs upon them. My lord gazes at the fire but moves little. When I stand, his eyes follow me, but he says naught. He holds his frame with the tension of a bowstring drawn just ere the arrow is to be loosed. I do not doubt his arm pains him greatly, for, lying heavily in its sling, its bones are most like to be broken.

"My lord," I say, and he gives me a look of weary query.

"You are home. Will you not rest?"

I move swiftly to the settle along the wall. I am surprised he did not lay himself down there, for it is the more comfortable, having a full mattress thick-stuffed with wool and goose down. But mayhap not, as it is new to the hall and in the night he would not have known it for what it was.

"Have you broken your fast, my lord?" I call o'er my shoulder.

"No."

Knowing he cannot see my face, my lips have pressed themselves into a thin line. Taking up the pillow from the settle, I drop it to his bench. He watches silently as I kneel afore him, pull at his laces and tug at his heel to lift his foot, his face grave. Should it not do very little to lift his mood, I would sigh at the state of his foot. I doubt not his hose long abandoned for the holes he wore into them, and his foot is now raw in places where his boot rubbed against it.

"I think I shall take it as a compliment of my cooking, then, that you would hoard your hunger until you return home, my lord," I say and toss one boot to the end of the bench, smiling up at his face.

A ghost of a smile teases his lips. "Yes, now I do recall it, that must have been my reason."

"And what would my lord request to eat now he is returned?" The second boot drops to the floor and he lifts his feet, stretching out upon the bench.

"Whatever the lady has to hand," he says and lets out a long breath, "so long as it is hot." He has already pressed his face into the pillow and closes his eyes.

Kneeling there, I allow myself one moment to look at him. My lord has fallen quickly into a light drowse. Not only has he not eaten, I doubt he allowed himself much rest in the last days of his journey. Though I long to draw a hand along his shoulder and press a kiss onto his unshaven cheek to seal his welcome home, to do so would only rouse him. It is enough that I must move about in the hall to make things prepared, so I let him lie.

He stirs little as I draw and heat water upon the hearth and set a pipkin of rolled grain, apples, honey and sheep's milk to simmering, but when the water begins to boil and I roll the great barrel tub from the buttery, his eyes open and he rises from his sleep. He rubs his face and seems to gather himself ere thrusting up from the bench and slowly walking through the buttery and out the back of the hall. When he returns, I have filled the bath with well water and am pouring in the contents of the cauldron. A screen protects the tub from the cool outdoor air and from view of the door and windows, reflecting the heat of the hearth back onto the bather.

He is quiet, already fumbling with the ties of his cloak and belt without comment as I stir the water with my hand, testing its warmth.

"Your bath is ready, my lord," I say as I walk to pick up his gear. "I shall heat more water, should you wish."

He nods and moves behind the screen where I can but see the crown of his head.

"Elesinda shall start the laundry once you are done, my lord," I say, having caught her earlier and set her to milking the ewes where she will have no need to come indoors. I have gone to his pack and am unlashing his blanket as I speak. "Should you throw me your things, I will have them added."

My only answer is the flight of his tunic, followed soon by shirt, breeches, and braes. I shake my head in amusement only to halt at the ragged edge of my lord's blanket where he cut it with his knife. I thought the cloth of his sling a familiar one, and now I know from whence he had obtained it. Ah well, as it is, the wool has nigh worn through in great patches, its usefulness near at an end. I gather up my lord's discarded clothes in what is left of his blanket and draw the corners into a loose knot. As I do so I hear my lord's long sigh from where he lowers himself into the water.

~oOo~

I bear my lord's meal and my feet stumble in my stride. It is all I can do to stifle the exclamation that comes upon my lips. My lord turns his head to look upon me at the sound. His back, side, and arm are one great bruise; purple, blue, and black. His knuckles are raw, and a multitude of scratches mars the skin of his neck where his clothing gave him no protection.

I set the board across the tub and he takes up his spoon. I forbear from brushing my fingers upon his bruised skin, though a small, soft sound of anger and dismay must have escaped from me, for my lord speaks.

"I do what I must, lady," he says and, turning away, takes up a large spoonful of the sweet pottage. "It was a fall, in truth," he says wryly once he has swallowed and turns to his ale.

"From what, my lord, the tip of Silvertine?" I ask and then halt for the forwardness of my tongue. Yet, I am rewarded with a soft snort.

"Not quite, luckily." My lord's eyes twinkle at me o'er his cup. "Though mayhap not far from it."

I think, now, my lord must grow to enjoy vexing me, for, when I leave him to his bath and scoop up his bundle of soiled clothing, the cluck of my tongue serves only to make him smile.

When I return to the hall, he has finished his quick meal and lifted the board from the bath. He eases his sling about his neck and leans back against the side of the tub. There he sips at his ale, and, should the tub have been of greater size, should soon to slip into slumber, so weary is he.

With me I bring linens, clean and new clothing, a cloth to replace his sling, and a cake of green soap. At the sound of my boots upon the stone floor approaching him, my lord slips against the side of the tub where he is propped and jerks awake. He shakes his head to clear his thoughts and makes to take a small square of linen from me.

"Come, now, lady," he says with some impatience when I hesitate to surrender it. "I have traveled through the Hills of the Fells and the moors to get here, and all with the use of but one hand. I think I may just be able to bathe myself."

"Oh, aye, my lord," I say and, laying aside the linens, sink to kneeling beside the tub. "I doubt it not. But I would think, too, the going was difficult. I cannot see how you could have kept to the Road in such a state, for fear of what eyes may see you thus. And I cannot see how you could have found much sleep for the pain and much to eat without the use of both hands."

At this, my lord looks upon me with somewhat of surprise, and then lays his knuckles in a brief touch upon my cheek. His face softens, and by this I know he will submit.

"Two years it has been and yet I deem you still unused to the comforts a wife would give. Forgive me, my lord, but mayhap you have not given it your full effort."

My lord leans forward in the tub and huffs a sharp laugh. "'Tis not what Halbarad says."

"Aye, well, my lord, you know not the simple pleasures he seeks while you are gone." I set to rolling up my sleeves. "I am fair surprised the man has not grown fat for all his love of sweets."

My lord chuckles and the sound echoes against the side of the tub. "'Twas always so, lady, yet I think he had not had the chance to indulge it so oft afore."

I smile, for I know now Halbarad is sure to be sorely teased by his kin. Aye, my lord is a lean man, and none so lacking in fat as when he first returns home. Ah, he has his own tooth for sweets, but best loves the savory tastes of sausages and hard ale. I have found a dish of smoked fish, soft goat's cheese, garlic and other herbs that he will spread upon toasted bread, eat until it is gone, and then scrape at the corners of the pot with bits of the bread. All manner of pottage, fresh green things, and roots he eats well and with much eagerness. I lack only a manner of serving pease to my lord that he finds pleasing.

I lower the soap into the water beside my lord and lather the wet cloth with it. The bath is hot and a gentle steam rises to settle against my cheek. I begin with his back, scrubbing at the tender flesh gently. He sways a little under my hands, his loose hair slowly coming to hang o'er the water's surface. Should he allow it, mayhap I shall trim his hair of their ragged ends. At the moment, my lord seems content with the heat of the water against bruised flesh and so I lay the cloth upon his shoulder. The spice of bay leaves mingles with the sweet scent of sheep's milk rising from the cloth.

"Did you make the soap, lady?" he asks, his voice thick with gathering sleep.

"Elesinda and I." I refresh the warmth of the cloth from his bath and lay it again upon him.

"The smell is pleasing."

"I thought it might be easier to endure your kinsman's teasing should you not also smell of lavender, my lord."

He smiles at the thought and his voice sharpens. "Tis very kind of you, lady."

When I have done with his back, my lord shifts in the tub, the water squabbling softly along its sides as he moves. He lifts his chin and I take to washing his neck and breast. Between us two, we complete the bath, he lifting his arm aside and I lathering him with soap. The water bubbles against the rim of a pitcher as I lower it in the bath.

"Will you tell me of what has passed in the Angle?"

When I raise both eyes and pitcher, I find my lord looks upon me, his eyes clear of his drowse.

"Is there a reason you would not wish to tell of it?" he asks when I do not speak.

"No, my lord," I say and tip the pitcher so I may pour water upon him. "I know not what you would wish to hear."

"I would hear told whatever you wish to say, lady."

I wipe at soap that lingers beneath his arm, considering. "Did you hear aught of Melethron and his wife, Berel?"

"No," my lord says and frowns. "What of them?"

"She is with child again."

"Another?" he exclaims. "How many have they now? Six? Seven?"

"This last makes eight, my lord."

He lets loose a fond huff of laughter. "Melethron shall be insufferable."

I smile in return. "Indeed he shall, my lord." And, I think further, his house in happy chaos.

I lather his arm when my lord speaks again. "I would know more of your efforts for the House. The ledgers I gave you, you keep them still?"

"Aye, my lord."

"Would you show them to me, then?" he asks and I nod, but keep myself much occupied with pouring water where I have washed. _Ai!_ They are well-kept, my books. I have not that to fear but have done much without my lord's knowing and I worry what he may make of it.

The hall falls quiet, and the fire snaps, sending a plume of smoke into the air and the water chimes softly as I refill the pitcher. He has washed his face and I pour the water upon his upturned brow.

He wipes at his closed eyes and cheeks, and then sighs. "Have you been comfortable here?"

"Aye, my lord. Your kinsman takes good care of me."

Since the breaking of the cold weather, Halbarad has taken to journeying atimes upon the lands about the Angle, seeing personally to its safety where once he had other men on which to rely. Still, when e'er he leaves, he would not have me be alone and assigns another as my guard.

"I have no complaints, my lord." And he nods in reply, his look content. "Shall I wash your hair, my lord?"

He leans o'er the water by way of answer and I refill the pitcher. His hair darkens and falls straight and long about his neck, moving softly with the warm water as I pour. I then roll the soap in my hands and lather his hair. His eyes are closed and I think his thoughts distant until he speaks again.

"How do you find Halbarad?"

"He has been attentive, my lord, guarding my person and your lands and folk, as is needed." His head rocks gently beneath the pressure of my fingers at his scalp.

"And how is this seen?"

A delicate question. It holds within it both inquiry and warning. Of note, he speaks not to realities, though I am unsure how I thought he would not be well acquainted with his kinsman's inclinations. Natheless, my lord has no freedom to take the perception of impropriety lightly, no matter what he knows to be truth. By necessity, he will brook no question of the paternity of his heirs. True, Halbarad is much in my company and I feel a fondness for the tall, quiet Ranger who shadows my steps, but I lack the feeling for him that this man who sits compliant under my hands evokes within me.

My lord opens his eyes at my silence, and frowns when my thoughts quirk my lips.

"They have taken to calling him Huan," I say.

At that, my lord throws back his head and laughs loud and long, his mirth writ large upon his face. It warms my heart to see him at ease at last, and I smile. My hands, full of soap as they are, rest upon the edge of the tub.

When he quiets, my lord asks, his face alight with mischief, "And, lady, shall you take your Great Hound of Valinor with you into the market tomorrow? For fain would I see their faces and know, for once, what they whisper behind their hands when I have passed."

"Nay, my lord, not when I have Beren to keep me company," I say lightly and smile upon him.

Then, with a shock, I wish to have caught my words ere they had slipped into the air between us. So taken with the joy that lights his face am I, I have become careless. His lips yet smile, but their curve is sorrowful and his eyes above them are pensive and dark. _Ai!_ I am a fool! I should not have recalled his forefather who married for love, setting aside all fears, nor should I have placed myself in the role of Lúthien.

When he catches my somber look, my lord comes to himself and shifts in his bath. His eyes are hidden from me by the lids that have fallen over them as he stares at the water, but still I can see the consternation he would hide in the set of his jaw and angle of his shoulders. It is my own fault, this ache in my heart, I know, for I have sent a barb straight into my lord's most open wound and asked more than he can give.

He lifts his gaze to mine and in his eyes I see but the faintest shadow of regret.

"Then I must take care not to place my hand in the mouth of the Wolf," he says in a thin attempt at our earlier cheer.

My lord takes my hand and lifts it from the side of the tub, and I smile in return, for that is what he would wish, but my heart has fallen. I do not resist when he would press his lips there, for should he wish to ease my hurt I do not think I can forbid it. But then a sudden scowl comes upon his face, for a thick lather yet clings to my fingers. Swiftly, he plunges my hand into the bath to rid it of the soap ere lifting it and pressing a kiss there. When he releases me, silent laughter draws fine lines about his eyes and the smiles I turn to him are the more true for it.

Smiling still, I take up the pitcher where I have set it aside and send it below the water so I might fill it and rinse my lord's hair. He then must remain silent. With my fingers at his scalp and the bath warm upon them, I ease the soap from his head. Water falls in thin streams from his hair and his breast rises slowly, but my lord is still and does not look upon me. We let the chatter of water falling to the bath fill the silence for us and are content merely to listen to its talk, foregoing our own conversation.

When the task is done, and he stands afore me wound in a sheet, his hair dripping onto his shoulders and his skin flushed and warm, my lord leans to me and presses his lips upon my cheek. It is a chaste kiss, rich in affection and dismissal.

~oOo~


	22. Chapter 21

~ Chapter 21 ~

_'__Go now, and die in what way seems best to you. And with whom you will, even that friend whose folly brought you to this death. Send for my servants and then go. Farewell!'_

ROTK: The Siege of Gondor

~oOo~

_~ TA 3009, 17__th__ day of Urimë: one ram of six seasons, two yearling rams with free range of east and north pasture, respectively, with nightly supplement of oat grass and barley. Mature ram set to south and northeast pasture with the ewes on alternating days, with two yearling rams set to the opposite days together for at most sixty days from start. _

~oOo~

I set the sheaf of parchments on the table and tug at the leather thong to no avail. After the midday meal, Elesinda cleared the table and left us in the hall to hang the wash upon the hedges to dry. Here my lord and I sit, he in his chair and I on a bench beside him, and I know not why I cannot seem to undo the simple knot that holds the folds of leather in place. For the pity of the Valar! I can untie a warp from a heddle rod as easily as a spider spins a web and now, of all times, I seem to have great clopping hooves instead of fingers. My lord's patience must be sorely tried, and yet a quick glance tells me he merely waits, turning his cup about upon the table. I know not why my nerves have gone to jangling. My journal and accounts are up to date and, indeed, I have most like been more dedicated than there is need.

Upon the setting of the meal, my lord requested I attend him afterwards. Then, my lord devoured the meat and savory pudding, and refilled his bowl with the fresh greens. But, though he helped himself to a small portion of the pease, they lay untouched in his bowl until the last when he swallowed them down with a large gulp of his ale.

It may well be wondered why this vexed me, but it did. I had thought the pease might be more pleasing to him, for this time I cooked them in a broth of pork and ale and seasoned them with thyme and wild garlic. But it seemed not. And now I fear all my efforts upon his behalf shall fail of my lord's liking.

Finally, the strands part and, taking a deep breath, I lay a bundle of much-scraped and ragged parchments and a pile of single sheets afore my lord.

Taking up the bundle, I say, "Here you find a journal of the day, my lord. In it I record the weather, cool or warm, rainfall and sun, events in the village, the health of our livestock, and growth in our gardens and fields."

"Is that necessary?" he asks, and I clear my throat and set it aside.

"Mayhap not," I say, "but I find it helpful in planning for the coming year."

My lord lifts a shoulder. "Very well, pray go on."

I pull out a single sheet from the pile. "Here you find an account of the stores we produced in the last season, those in the pantry, dry goods, and fodder for the livestock, and their use."

He nods, glancing down the columns.

"And here you will find an account of the tithes collected from the village over the same time," I say, pointing to another sheet, "and here is an account of the goods and services we acquired in barter and that which we traded for their purchase or use."

I arrange the sheets in order and fall silent. He is frowning as he peers o'er them.

"I also have an accounting of the prior seasons should you like to see those as well, my lord," I offer, despising the timidity in my voice as I do so.

He shakes his head absently while he sifts through the parchments, pushing one to the side and pulling another close the better to see its contents. "No, these will do more than well enough."

In his tone I hear a shade of censure. I have, mayhap, been too meticulous in my records. He lifts a page from the table and examines it closely. Then he sighs and, tossing the sheet onto the pile, leans back into his chair.

I will not stare at him anxiously and plead for his approval.

"How long until this house is self-sufficient, lady?" he asks, his face grave as he glances o'er the parchments and toys with the edge of one.

The question startles me, and heat rises from my neck and blooms on my cheeks.

"We are, my lord."

His brow lowers and he points to a careful column of goods and figures. "You still collect the tithes, do you not?"

"Aye, my lord."

"Then how are we not dependent?"

"Are not tithes owed this House?" I ask, confounded by his obvious disapproval.

"Do we have need of them?" he asks, his voice stern. He has grown very still.

"No, my lord, but for the days-work provided by the men of our folk, our needs are met sufficiently by what we produce," I say and pull a sheet further out from the pile, "As you can see here –"

"Do you tell me, then," he says, his voice stern for all he speaks softly, "that this House is in comfort when there are those of the Angle who suffer for want?"

It seems his gaze would pierce to my very heart. Yet I find I grow angrier rather than less certain. My heart does indeed pound but my voice is firm, for I can think only of the hours I have poured o'er these pages at his behest, scrimping not only on the goods we wear and food we eat, but the very parchment on which I have recorded it all.

"No!" I say and he falls silent.

His look is cold, but he nods to me, and gestures to my records. "Proceed."

Very well, then, I shall.

Laying aside the bundle and the leather binder, I shuffle the single parchments until they are aligned in an order that makes best sense.

"As I said, here, my lord, you will find a record of what we produce, what we obtain in barter, what we purchase it with, and the tithes we collect." I point to each in turn. He settles back in his chair.

"Ranger Halbarad and his men have been so good as to supply meat for our table from the forest and the river upon occasion and I have had to cull the flocks for our table but seldom. The sheep, geese, and hens we now have that give us the milk and eggs we no longer need to obtain in trade were purchased with lambs birthed across several seasons. The rams you so kindly gave to me as dower have proved fertile and their ewes willing."

Here I run my finger down the list of ewes, the dates the rams serviced them and the lambs they produced ere laying it aside and pulling out a list of produce from our fields and continuing.

"Master Herdir came upon the idea of the House engaging the smith to fashion ploughs of both wood and iron and to combine the Angle's oxen to teams of no less than six, and so he can plough more fields in less time. He has taken men of the wandering clans into your service when it became clear their skills at training the beasts was superior to aught the Angle had seen. More oxen are ready to take to the plough than is needed in one day, and so the men training them have devised a system of rotating teams that work well together. Master Herdir's touch for the weather remains true and he sets the teams to their ploughing at times most opportune for the planting to flourish.

"The men of the wanderers who wish have been set to the additional fields' planting and tending. A portion of its yield feeds their families and provides for those of the Angle in need. With this payment and other works that they perform are they recompensed in land of their own holding. I have engaged their women, Elesinda, and several of her neighbors to spin yarns fit for the sturdy rugs and blankets that our walls and beds do not need. In exchange, I provide the women with chicks, goslings, and lambs so they might raise them and use the eggs and meat to feed themselves or trade for what they need. In recompense, I provide Elesinda with clothes of a quality of cut and color she would not otherwise have. She enjoys them, my lord, as do the young men for whom she wears them. I know not what bargain she has made with the other women who assist her. I have left that to her and they seem satisfied."

I go on, "So yes, my lord, not only is this house sufficient onto itself, but oft we run into surplus." A brow rises in surprise, but he does not question me when I point to a fifth column of goods and figures.

"This surplus, we do not use. That which we are given in tithe that would spoil is most oft traded for more durable commons and goods. These, and the tithes, are collected in our parlor and sheds until such time the Angle needs them. When the time comes, I have contracted with Mistress Pelara, who has been instrumental in this plan's design, to distribute our surplus to our people when they flee hither and those of the Angle who suffer for misfortune. In the past year, no widow, fatherless child, elderly or ill among your folk, and no family who found their way to the Angle has gone to bed hungry, without at least a mean shelter over their heads, or blankets to keep them warm. For her efforts, in trade, Mistress Pelara has been given a length of wool of a deep red at her request, the roving for which was collected from our own sheep and the dye for which I made from madder roots I brought from my father's house ere I became your wife. Shall I continue?"

"Lady!" my lord commands. As I spoke, his face had moved from displeasure, to disbelief, to interest, but now his eyes flash in warning.

I am hot from breast to the very crown of my head. I drop my eyes, unable to meet his gaze. Indeed my tongue has grown much too impertinent in my anger. He is not my father, and I am not his daughter indulged to the point of being overly familiar and prideful.

"Forgive me, my lord," I say and I blink against tears that burn at the lids of my eyes. "I wish only to please you. I seek only to fulfill the trust you gave me. You said you wished this house to be self-sufficient, and I have done so. You commanded me to provide care for your people in your place, and I have tried to do so, to the best I can."

I hear the soft sigh of my lord's breath as he releases it. He rubs at his bearded cheek and, I think, must consider the lists I have laid afore him.

"This is an accounting of the Dúnedain who have sought refuge here?" he asks, scanning the dates, names and numbers of people. His voice is soft.

"Aye, my lord." My face is as sober as his. "And there are more come that are not recorded here. They arrived in the night and speak of more who follow."

"Will we have enough to meet their need?" He considers me gravely.

"Aye, my lord, I believe so. I had planned to go through our stores and set aside more this afternoon. We are pressed to provide shelter and, should more flee hither, soon our supplies will run short."

"We can raise shelters," says he. "It merely takes the men with which to do it. The problem of supplying their remaining needs will take more thought."

He turns over the page. Slowly, my lord shakes his head as he gazes at the filled surface of the parchment and I know his mind. Our Enemy could pass over a small village in the Angle with the disdain he reserves only for the noble that have fallen to a mean existence from the lofty heights of Númenor, but a makeshift city will most certainly draw his Eye. We will be a hidden people no longer.

"I know not, my lord, what plans Halbarad makes for their defense."

He sighs and releases the parchment to the table.

"It was not my intent to demean your efforts," he says. "When do you attend upon our people who have fled hence?"

"Soon, ere the even's meal."

His hand covers mine. "I will go with you."

My lord draws my hand into his and studies it, smoothing the skin along my bones with a gentle thumb. When he looks up, his eyes are a grey lit within by a keen light so bright it seems I had forgotten their color until now. He searches my face a long moment ere speaking, his eyes, could I believe it, almost sorrowful.

"Build me a fortress, lady."

I blink at him in wonder and disbelief.

"Build me a fortress," he repeats, clasping my hand more tightly in his, his voice growing intent.

"My lord," I begin, but then falter, my voice fading, swallowed by my doubt.

"You achieved all else I have required of you," he says. "Why not this?"

"Because, my lord, I know not the first thing of building a fastness that will keep our people safe."

"Do you not?" He releases my hand and gestures loosely at the pages scattered upon the table. "Why do you do all this? The Shadow presses us from all sides. In all likelihood, were you to listen to reason, the Angle and its people will soon be cruelly swept away despite all our best efforts. Why, then, do you work so hard?"

"Because you set the example, my lord, and I am yours to command," I say, my brows furrowing. I am lost in his speech and can find no light to guide my understanding.

"Then I tell you, should we trust to high walls or even the bright edge of our Ranger's swords to protect us, we shall fail. There shall be no more Dúnedain in the North."

He takes up my hand in his again and presses it tightly. His face is grim.

"Lady, of all the enemies we face, there is none so deadly as despair," he says, his voice low and firm with purpose. "The people must have hope, despite all this," he nods at my lists of wanderers, "else we are lost. I need a fortress for our people, lady, but not one of stone."

He searches my face and, his voice quiet, he pleads, "Build me a fortress, lady. I have no other to ask."

It seems I cannot remove my eyes from his face. At that moment, I came to know why his men follow him with such devotion. I think I could have leapt upon a troll and attempted to bring it down at his command, only were he to continue to look upon me like that.

"Will you do this for me?"

There is no other answer to give but "yes," but even that I have trouble giving voice. The best I can manage is a nod, but this, though little enough, seems to satisfy him.

"Good." He looks pleased, albeit a little weary, and releases me. "I shall leave it in your hands, then."

He drinks from his cup of wine while I gather the loose sheets of parchment, arranging them into order by season and item. Still, he watches me, for, no doubt, my thoughts play upon my face. And I have much on which to reflect.

So, I am to build a shelter of hope for the Dúnedain. Once our stone towers spanned from earth to sky and our bridges from bank to bank across deep flowing waters. Our faith in them was poorly placed, for now they crumble into ruin as jagged teeth upon the hills and broken boulders o'er which rivers roar. We have but one thing that has persisted across the ages undiminished, yet even that may not last under the Shadow. Indeed, should we continue as we have, there is little hope it will survive even this one lifespan of men.

My lord's hand beneath my chin is warm and gentle as he lifts my face, but still, I startle, the thread of my thoughts broken.

"Speak," he commands and releases my chin.

I have no hope of dissembling beneath those keen eyes. There is naught for it but to say what is on my mind, should he like it or not. I draw a breath and begin.

"The people find hope in the House of Isildur, my lord," I say, and he nods. "You ask me to build a fortress." "Very well." A faint smile comes to his face at the straightening of my shoulders and lifting of my chin. "I shall attempt it. But this I know, the foundation must be laid upon the line of kings unbroken. And it is that foundation which must first claim my attention."

"Aye," he says when I pause, searching for words.

How does one say this?

"I cannot build the foundation without your aid." Here I stop, at a loss.

He frowns at my perplexity.

I stare at him. How can I, beholden to my lord as I am, stand in judgment upon him?

When I hesitate, he says, "What is it? Speak plainly."

"My lord," I say and pass my tongue across my lips. My mouth has gone suddenly dry. "You must lay with me more oft, my lord, else there is small chance I shall conceive your heir."

At that, for the first since I have known him, my lord's eyes drop from my gaze. There they glitter beneath the veil of his lids and somewhat akin to chagrin troubles his features. So still does he hold himself the only movement I can discern is the faint flutter of a pulse beneath his jaw.

Then, with but a deep breath, his stillness is broken, and when he meets my eye, it has cleared.

He inclines his head briefly. "I am yours to command in this matter."

"Only," he goes on, but then appears to falter.

My heart sinks. I have presumed too far. I do not wish to know more of what lack he finds in me, yet he seems poised on revealing this very thing.

"You are most thorough in your book-keeping, for which I commend you," he says with a lift of his brow as he glances askance at the pile of documents upon the table, "but I must beg you not to keep record of my attempts to beget a child upon you."

"My lord!" I cry, shocked until I see the delight twinkling in his eyes. It occurs to me, belatedly, that I am being greatly teased.

He catches my hand easily as I launch myself to my feet, smiling at the grimace I turn upon him.

"Your flocks have already sacrificed a great enough number of their hides to your records," he says, now grinning up at me, "and I do not think I could bear the indignity of my efforts on your behalf being catalogued beside your poor rams."

"I promise you, my lord," I say, pulling at his grip, "should you begin producing lambs, even your wrath shall not deter me from documenting the event."

A shout of laughter bursts from my lord and he rises from his chair, refusing to release my hand. "Come then," he says, laughing still. "We have some few moments afore us. Mayhap we should put it to the test."

Insufferable man! Only on these terms would he offer the very thing I begged of him.

My thoughts must have played across my face, for, grinning broadly, he draws me into an unyielding embrace, securing me inexorably against his breast, despite the lack of use of one arm. I can lift a grown ewe from her feet and carry buckets filled to the brim with either water or gravel and tear out overgrown thickets with naught but my hands, and yet, still I have not the strength to resist my lord's grip, and so do not even give it an attempt. But still, my face must be indignant and my body rigid in his arm; for his smile fades and he catches my eyes with a look that is solemn. For a long moment he considers me thus ere he speaks.

"When I asked, lady, you made your choice and have honored your pledge with your efforts. I, too, made my choice in the asking," he says softly. "Can I do no less?"

I make no reply, but surely the rigidity with which I held myself apart has melted and my arms return his embrace. He yet hesitates a moment and then his hand cups my face, his thumb brushing across my cheek in a brief caress ere he presses his lips to mine. In the warmth of their touch there is, were it not passion, a certain fondness.

~oOo~


	23. Chapter 22

~ Chapter 22 ~

_At the doors of the Houses many were already gathered to see Aragorn, and they followed after him; and when at last he had supped, men came and prayed that he would heal their kinsmen or their friends whose lives were in peril through hurt or wound, or who lay under the Black Shadow._

ROTK: The Houses of Healing

~oOo~

_~ TA 3009, 17__th__ day of Urimë: rûdh-glaew: Cropleek and garlic, of both equal amounts, chop fine and pummel well together, take wine and bullocks gall, of both equal amounts, mix with the leek. Pour into brass vessel. Let stand in a cool place for nine days. Wring out through a cloth and clear it well. Give within the first two days of contagion. _

~oOo~

The roof of the smithy is high and made of thin shale, vented to the sky so the smoke of the forge may escape along with its heat. I have had little occasion to visit and so find much that captures my interest there. Tools hang from their hooks in a thicket of iron, wood and leather. I know not the use of even half of these and marvel at the smith's mastery of his trade.

Shutters are cleverly fixed to the vents overhead so that, should it rain, they may be closed and keep all those within dry and warm. But now they are open and the fitful sun streams in columns full to the floor, caught as the light is in the thin smoke drifting about the shed. All about is the thick, scorched smell of hot iron and hammering sounds loud in our ears atimes, but it is not that of steel upon steel but rather wood upon wood. For the land about the smithy has been cleared and its walls are soon to be greatly expanded. And not only that, but our men lay foundation for another house and sheds to be set nearby. Already the supports stand tall and secure, their feet sunk deep into the soil.

"Aye," the smith says slowly, his head bent o'er the buckles my lord gave him. "I think it can be done." He turns them about in his hand and they clink together as he tosses them lightly until they are engulfed in his broad palms. "Have you a day or two to spare, my lord?"

"I might," says my lord wryly and the smith laughs.

"Aye, well, my lord," he says and points a knuckle at my lord's arm, splinted and wrapped in a sling as it is. "We shall hope your healing will not be much delayed or a burden to you."

My lord nods briefly, a smile lingering upon his face. "A small matter, it is," he says, referring to the buckles, "but it may save me time and worry upon the road."

'Tis the first I have seen of my lord among the Dúnedain of the Angle, and I find my heart warmed by the sight. For, aye, my lord's face is grave as always, but his shoulders gentle, I think, with the brief release of some heavy weight that once rested upon them.

"I would be happy to do it then," says the smith and scratches absently at his bald pate. "Should it not be I, then my good wife shall see to it. In fact, I would ask it of her, instead, she has the better eye for fine work."

At this, my lord nods to Mistress Tanril, the smith's wife, who sits at her work in a small square of sun. Inconstant as he is of character this day, the sun hides his face and we are plunged into a sudden dimness in which the sullen glow of the forge plucks at the eye.

A soft touch draws my attention away and upon my look I find not the face of the smith's wife, but that of a woman with soft brown hair and dark eyes. She it is, Mistress Linmir, the wife of our wandering smith, whose husband now bends his back nearby to the working of wood rather than metal.

Upon our entrance, she had turned from the corner where she and Mistress Tanril sat with their heads inclined o'er the woman's bench. I know not what fine work Mistress Tanril shaped with her hands, but Mistress Linmir had no doubt lingered over it when she came to clear away the remains from their hasty meal. At our arrival, they had risen and bid their good morrows, but once my lord was deep in his business with the smith, she shared a quick glance with the other woman and accepted the thing pressed into her hand.

And now I find she looks upon me where I wait for my lord by the door.

"My lady," she whispers and draws somewhat from behind the folds of her skirts. "Please you to take this."

By her manner I know she wishes the exchange to be made in confidence and so I do not speak, but turn my shoulder to the men and lift the bundle from her grasp. Wrapped in a square of fine blue linen I find it unbalanced and I must clutch at it or let it fall. At the eagerness in her eyes, I unwind the linen from the thing within. I stare, for within a nest of blue lies a finely wrought spindle. The rod is of a high polished metal and the whorl a small cup of the same upon which is etched figures of clouds and blowing wind. With such a thing, with practice, I could spin as I walked and not worry for the whorl banging about my knees. And not only that, but a cunningly made latch dangles from a loop of leather I might string upon my belt and fasten to the spindle's hook when not in use. A fine gift it is, but one, to avoid the claim of favoritism, I am loath to accept.

"Nay, my lady," she says, laying a hand upon my arm, for my dismay must show.

Her eyes glow with a hidden pleasure that makes me smile in return. I think then she must know of the efforts made on her and her family's behalf, for we threw the smiths and their wives much together when e'er we had the chance.

"I shall treasure it and get much use of it, then," I say, keeping my voice low, and tuck the bundle deep within the tall basket sitting at my feet. Mistress Tanril watches from her workbench and smiles upon me, turning away only to beam o'er her work.

With a nod of greeting and soft words of apology, a young man slips from around me through the door, interrupting our council. He is as broad of hand and shoulder as his father and carries a basket of charcoal as were it naught. He sets to noisily stoking the forge so that the men must raise their voices to be heard over it.

"And shall I send Master Baran over upon the morrow?" my lord asks, turning away to the door.

At the first, I know not of whom he speaks, but then it comes to me my lord has discovered the name of the wandering woodsman, and he not fully one day home.

"Nay, my lord, you may send him upon the hour, should you wish," says the smith. "I have the shoes and Tanion here has the time to take him to the farrier's."

His son nods from the forge. "Aye, my lord, I think I should like to see this new horse of yours. I hear much of him."

"Very well," my lord says, smiling, for he has purchased himself a new mount and arrived home to find the beast waiting for him there. Aye, my lord is much taken with him and, true though he may have weathered the worst of his pain upon the Wild, naught else would do but my lord spent the morning putting the horse through his paces. "My thanks to you, then, Master Mahtan."

I take up again the basket I have brought here.

"And a blessing on your House," the smith replies, touching upon his brow ere he tosses the buckles onto a bit of cloth on his bench.

It seems my lord shall leave with little greeting for the woman at my side, but when she touches upon her brow and gives him a low reverence, he stops, at first scowling mildly at her ere, upon the relief of his puzzlement, his face brightens.

"Ah!" he exclaims. "I see you have found yourself a place here in the Angle! You are recovered well! My heart is glad to see it so. And your husband?"

"Aye, my lord!" she says. "And he is here, as well."

"And how fares that lass of yours?"

Her face bursts into a shy and joyful look. "Aye, she is about someplace with her sister," says she, waving a hand loosely down the path toward the center of the Angle. "I sent them on an errand of a few moments and they've been gone nigh most the morn. Getting into mischief again, they are, my lord."

"That is well, then," he replies and, smiling, presses her gently upon her arm. I do not think she had expected his warmth and she looks nigh to tears for it.

"They will be greatly sorrowed to have missed you, my lord."

"Then I must return at some other time to see them again," he says and withdraws his hand. "Bid you good day," he ends with a nod.

Upon the path the morning rain left puddles of water in which the westering sun pools its light. We step carefully, walking most oft upon the grasses by the side of the road. The basket is not so heavy, filled as it is with blankets and linens stripped for the making of dressings, but still my lord will not suffer me to bear it. He lifts it from my hands when I think to put my arm through its strap, taking it and fixing me with a stern look when I resist.

"Come now," he says. With some effort, he twists the basket about and slings it to his back. "I still have my one good arm and know you would wish to keep your hands busy."

He nods to my hip where, in truth, my spindle does bang lightly against me as I walk. Seldom do I go without it hooked to my belt and a bit of roving in a bag somewhere within reach for when I must sit and wait with naught else to do. It is an old habit, for I much dislike my hands being idle and find the whirring wood and slow growing thread a wholesome remedy for when my thoughts grow unquiet. What my lord says is true, for even when walking I would have it so.

My lord looks upon me with some secret knowledge shining in his eyes. He then sets to the path afore me, so he might avoid the mud. I need do naught but place my feet where he once stepped.

Ah! There are times when, I must admit, it is a sore trial to have a husband so perfect of mind and character. For he has little fault I can detect and I am laid bare afore him, with every foible and whimsy exposed.

Still, after some time, I am glad of having somewhat to do that keeps my eyes as well as my hands busy. I pull upon the length of roving and slip fibers from it to catch upon the yarn as it spins afore me. It slows my feet, but my lord seems not to mind, but looks about him and sets an easy pace I might match.

We do not talk as we make our way along the paths of the Angle, past house and shed and croft. I can think of naught on which to speak, for I am much used to going about the Angle with little comment other than greeting the few folk I know well. But, as I walk with my lord, heads turn and eyes stare, though I think they make some little effort to hide it. Atimes, they nod in silence or turn quickly to their fellows and speak, and at others, his people beam in joyous greeting. Word runs quickly through the Angle upon the feet of young children that my lord is returned and its folk come about every corner and fill every door. My lord bears with it well, greeting them each in turn as they will, but I feel each gaze as had they burned upon me.

It is not until we turn aside unto a path shadowed by tall elms my lord speaks. He twists about and fixes his gaze upon me while he walks.

"And what was it she gave you?" he asks, his face alight, and I wonder had he been puzzling o'er the mystery all this way since the forge. "Mistress Tanril?"

"It was naught, my lord," I say and when his eyes sharpen upon me, go on. "'Twas merely a woman's trifle."

He makes a small noise, the meaning of which I cannot discern, for he turns away and says no further.

We go not to the center of the Angle, but away from it. Here few feet have traveled. The cooling of the nights has turned the leaves overhead a soft gold and the rain has struck them to the ground in places so that they pave the path with their bright colors and we are more free to walk side by side. Above our heads, sharp points of light shimmer upon the high fluttering edges of the trees and, below our feet, we stir the musk of wet earth and autumn leaves and the green tang of crushed grass.

I think, when my lord awoke, he found the world much refreshed, for though he suffers through moments of discomfort he walks easily and breathes deeply of the clean air. Aye, he is much changed from the morning. I think the rest he took did him a good, for once we took to our bed after our conference at the midday meal, he refused me my other tasks and so we kept to the solar and waited upon the sun.

In truth, I think he did not know himself so spent until, sated, he rested his head. There, upon my shoulder, he suffered me to card the locks from his brow with but the tips of my fingers and he fell deep to slumbering. There, I listened to the breeze drive the clouds o'er the tops of the trees and watched the light fade and swell in the solar. In the quiet of the middle of the day, I puzzled o'er the character of a man who, without thought of rest or need, hunted the Enemy in whatever form he might find him and yet, when home, abandoned himself so utterly to the pleasures of good food and an agreeable bed. I dared not move from beneath his heavy weight, nor did I wish to. Why take to the iron bit of my day while I had other tastes to savor the more sweet? And so I dozed atimes, drifting in a haze between sleep and wakefulness where I lay upon the fecund earth and its embrace smelled of bay leaf and skin warmed by the efforts of the flesh.

Soon the canopy above our head lifts to a high ceiling of blue and rushing clouds. We stride through gardens of yarrow, comfrey, mandrake, and other such herbs for the healing of the body in which the Mistress' workshop is nestled. We come then upon a lawn of soft green on which is set a long, low building, little more, in truth, than a rude shed with many windows where they may catch the light and breeze. About its walls twines honeysuckle so that its scent might sweeten the air, and yet, through its open door, I hear the muffled sound of coughing and a low groan. My lord halts and frowns, easing his burden from off his back.

"You said we were to meet Mistress Pelara here and help settle those newly wandered to the Angle, lady?"

"Aye, my lord, here they will rest a little, until they are well." I wrap the yarn tightly about the spindle, tucking in the loose end, and hook it back upon my belt.

"Until they are well?"

I catch not my lord's look, for my hands are deep within my sack and my eyes there as well, but know him gone by the sudden sense of his absence.

"Wait, my lord," I call, but his long stride carries him from me swiftly. I am no match for his legs though, grabbing up the basket he leaves behind, I hurry after him.

"My lord! _Thou shouldst not go in there! My lord!"_ And though I follow swiftly, I am too late, for he has already ducked his head below the low lintel and gone inside.

_Ai! _

The long hall is broken into small rooms by dint of naught other than rugs hanging from strung line. In each small space burns a brazier and upon each sits a pot, enough for tea or a bit of soup should they so wish. I stand in the door and dare go no further.

My lord stoops o'er an old man lying there upon a low bed. So grey is the man's skin I know not where his cheek begins and his beard ends. He is much taken with coughing and my lord kneels to prop the man up so he might breathe more freely.

"Lady, why did you not say there are signs of this sickness?"

"Alas!" comes a loud voice. "My lord, you should not be here!"

Her eyes wide, Mistress Nesta bustles round the hanging rugs, flinging them aside. They flap and bob in her wake. It seems she was summoned by his voice and, seeing me staring at my lord's back in horror, is in no doubt who he is.

"Is it the coughing plague that ails him?" my lord asks, sparing the healer a brief glance.

"My lord!" she exclaims. "Get away from him, at once. Have you no knowledge of your peril?"

I think, had not her hands been burdened by a pot of a thick and pungent substance, she would have taken a hold of his coat and tugged him away. But, as it is, he seems most disposed to ignore her, his attention all for the old man. Though greatly weakened by the spasm, he breathes a little clearer for it. My lord eases him back to his pillow and the man pats a trembling hand upon his arm, unable at the moment to speak.

"Nesta!" a voice exclaims behind me. 'Tis Mistress Pelara, and she gapes at the scene. "Have you finally addled your wits with those strange pottages you brew?"

"What was I to do?" the healer asks, her irritation clearly felt in the crack of metal upon stone as she nigh slams the pot to the floor. I see naught of her face, but have full view of the broad hips bent afore us. Her voice comes muffled against her skirts as she roughly stirs at the thick substance. "Tell the Lord of the Dúnedain he may not go where so ever he pleases? Or would you rather I sling him across these shoulders and cart him out the door?"

"Calm yourselves!" my lord commands and they fall still. "Be easy, I am in no danger." This last he delivers gently to me, who have stood quiet in the open door and, no doubt, fixed him with a shocked and grief-stricken look.

"My lord," say I in the silence following his words. "What would you have me do?"

"You, lady," he says, sending a piercing look my way, "shall step no further into this place. Have you the linens we brought?"

"Aye, my lord," I say and lean to the basket, digging about for what he seeks.

"You are the healer here?" he asks of the Mistress, for she has risen and smooths her skirts and hair, her face still a pink of vexation and effort.

"Aye, Nesta is my name, daughter of Bormund."

"Your mother then was Elannui. I knew her well. She was a healer of many natural gifts and much learning. Have you many such?" He nods to the old man, whose dark eyes flit from one to the other, bright with understanding and not a little mirth.

"Aye, my lord, it settles deep in the lungs upon our wet weather," she says, fussing with the man's bedding and plumping the pillows beneath his head. "They sleep not for their fever and sweat, then weaken as their lungs become corrupted."

"Aye, 'tis what I thought," my lord says briskly, with an eye to the man who watches them so close. "Would you bring me the linen from my lady, should it please you, Mistress Nesta."

"And these wandering folk more so than most," she goes on and leaves the man with a last tweak to his blanket. "We ply them with_ rûdh-glaew_ as soon as we may but so weary are they already, once it takes hold they can bare fight it off. Elder Tanaes keeps us in ox bile, Elder Bachor in wine, though I know not how he knew to keep such a large amount in stock for such a day. And you'll not find a root cellar between the two rivers without a brass pot of it, but it is a struggle to keep up with the demand. 'Tis their elders, my lord, who fall to it most oft."

"Worry not so much," my lord says to the man lying beside him. So soft is his voice I would hear it not beneath Mistress Nesta's word were I not attending so closely to them and only absently to the healer. I have found the bundled strips of linen cloth and shaken them free of the bundle of cloth about my new spindle and let it clatter to the bottom of the basket. "I have seen many men, and your elders at that, who have lived through this to many good days after."

"Though, atimes," Mistress Nesta says, taking the linens from me, "it takes our young, as well."

"Och!" Mistress Pelara leans her back against the doorway and shakes her head at the woman. "Hush you now, Nesta. Is this how you treat all those under your care?"

The woman shrugs, but it is the old man that speaks, his voice a rough whisper.

"'Tis kind of you, my lord, but who knows what I face better than I," he says.

"Aye." Mistress Nesta settles one haunch to the edge of his bed, places a hand upon the man's brow and brushes aside his hair. The smile she has for him is small and brief, but surprising in its tenderness.

"Have you _athelas_?" my lord asks and Mistress Nesta nods, handing him the bundle of linens where he kneels beside the bed.

"Aye, my lord, fresh from my gardens just out there, too," she replies and, with a grunt, pushes herself to her feet, "and as much as you might wish. Shall I go for it and heat you some water?"

"Yes, should you please." My lord sets to worrying at the knot about the linen. "I think I may be able to help some. It shall at least give them ease and clear the air of the corruption, an it naught else."

Mistress Nesta grunts, nodding and shifts the ill-smelling pot closer to the bed with her foot.

"I shall take over this. The poultice is ready, then?"

"Aye, my lord. Put it on his bare breast and it shall ease the tightness, an you would my lord, and I will see to getting you what you need. I have made enough of the brew to last for the next few days, while it is yet potent. Be sure to spread it thin, a little goes a long way and you would not want to urge them to desire their failing for the smell."

"My thanks to you, Mistress Nesta, but I know what to do with it." He has done with the knot, though he had to work at it and my fingers twitched with his effort. "When you have the _athelas_, call to me and we shall see to the others."

"Well then," the healer says, waving Pelara from the door. "Let me pass. I have an errand to run for our lord and I best be quick about it, do ye not think?"

Mistress Pelara gives way, tutting her vexation at the woman, for clearly the healer's eyes brighten with her sense of purpose and importance.

"Shall you stay here, then, my lord?" I ask, for I had much wished for his company upon the remaining errands of the day. Greatly could I use his skill at leading others to the heart of the matter and making them see the reason they might find there.

"Aye, lady, so I had thought." The old man plucks at the edge of his tunic, attempting to assist my lord in easing it about his shoulders. My lord halts of a sudden and peers at Mistress Pelara and I. True it is, we have not moved, and my look must hold somewhat of concern about it.

"Why? What else had you thought to do?"

"The Council meets upon the morrow, my lord," says Mistress Pelara.

"Does it?" He looks to me to confirm it. "What is it that troubles you?"

Mistress Pelara looks from me to my lord her eyes dark with doubt. "Aye, well," she says slowly. "We have the problem of the surplus of grain."

"What of it?"

"We have none," I say.

"Indeed? And you would wish to set aside some of this year's harvest for later need?"

"My lord," I say. "We have been blessed with enough rain when needed and sun in between. Not all seasons shall be so kind and yet we use all we can produce to feed those who shelter here."

"Aye, seems a good enough plan. What is the difficulty?"

I hesitate to say, for I may not speak so plainly as I might wish here in the open where too many ears may hear. There are those on the Council who, though would do it easily should it be of their own will, still would balk were restraint forced upon them for the good of all.

"Ah, well," he says. It seems he has perceived my thoughts, for he presses me no further, but kneels there on the floor, his hand upon his thigh, considering us both.

"Nay, lady, go! Speak to whom you will. Root out what you need to know. I shall meet you again at the house where I wish you to tell me all of your plans and how you have played them. We can speak over the evening meal, should you wish, though I doubt not my stomach shall rebel should I have to eat too much more of words today. Then, upon the morrow, you bring this matter afore the Council and we shall see what they make of it, shall we?"

"Aye, my lord," but it is Pelara who speaks and I see again that familiar light in her eye.

"Come now, my lady," she says brightly and turns to me. "Shall we let our lord to his business? You asked to see how the men get on with this man and his family's house."

"They have a house?" my lord asks, looking up of a sudden from where his hand is deep in the poultice.

"Aye, my lord," says Mistress Pelara.

"It was most done as of last week, my lord," I say, interrupting the Mistress for fear of what else she might add, for she looks much like a cat who has crept into the henhouse without its owner knowing. "Though we have had little time to spare to them as we come upon the harvest."

"Them? There are more than the one?"

"Aye, my lord," says Pelara and I think she shall burst with the pleasure she is forced to conceal. "And many more there are. Though we are hard pressed to keep up. You will find the men of the wanderers most willing to lend a hand, and their women, too, my lord, should ye care to ask them."

"Mistress," I say and wish my face was not quite so hot, for my lord's gaze is all too keen. I take her arm in one hand and the basket in the other, pushing both out the door. "Let us go. Now."

My lord laughs softly, shaking his head as his look lingers after us.

Had I stayed, mayhap I would have seen more. For the old man smiles up at my lord, his eyes hidden in folds of wrinkles all but for the laughter that shines from them. "She is your lady, my lord?" he asks in a soft voice.

"Aye, that she is." My lord wipes his fingers against the rim of the pot.

The old man's chuckle erupts into coughing and my lord, passing his good arm below his shoulders, eases him to sitting so he may breathe the easier. Then, when the fit has passed and he has drunk from the water my lord poured him, he speaks in a roughened whisper.

"Ah, I mean no offense, my lord, but you are well in for it."

~oOo~


	24. Chapter 23

~ Chapter 23 ~

_Gimli shivered. They had brought only one blanket apiece. 'Let us light a fire,' he said. 'I care no longer for the danger. Let the Orcs come as thick as summer-moths round a candle!'_

TTT: The Riders of Rohan

~oOo~

_~ TA 3009, 9__th__ day of Urimë: Rangers Haldren and Mathil, assigned Amun Sûl six weeks past there to lay watch upon the East Road, due to report to Melethron two weeks past. Mathil reporting little movement upon the East Road at end of cycle. Haldren left Amun Sûl to Mathil's watch to pursue signs of incursions to the north and east in the Weather Hills. Was to return to Amun Sûl within five days. Melethron to Bree in three days hence. Gelir and Mathil to search for sign of Ranger Haldren and report to Bree within three weeks of reaching Amun Sûl._

~oOo~

The warp hangs in bundles from where I have sewn them to the tough linen. Soft and thick they are, and of a wool the color of ash. I hope to weave into it a weft of cream so that when I dye the whole in walnut hulls, it shall be a cloth of heathered browns and grays, and yet light enough for my lord to lie upon the forest floor under its protection come the fall and winter and not be so swiftly seen.

I have chosen a weave of repeating diamonds and shall need three heddles. I think it will be a pleasure to let my fingers remember the work, leaving my thoughts to drift elsewhere. I sewed the cloth about my beam of greatest length and it sits now upon the heddle supports, from where the bundles of warp threads dangle. I set them to rights, untwisting them and pulling them out from under the beam so that, when I use the forked poles to lift the beam to the very top of the uprights, they shall not catch upon the heddle supports.

So caught up in the soft tangle of yarn am I the shadow that falls upon the warp startles me badly, and I cringe and step away. I had not known my thoughts so deep, for, to my surprise, Halbarad stands at my side, his hand flying quickly to hover o'er my lips. But once he catches my gaze, his eyes slide away.

There, at the end of the path his eyes take, my lord sits at his table. His finger runs upon the short hairs about his lip and his eyes look far off. I wonder at what Halbarad intends until I see the look upon my lord's face is dark with a frustrated rage. He has been at his maps, again, and there they lie, covered in black stones. We have had news with our morning meal, and Haldren, an elder among our lord's Rangers and used to the Wild, is much delayed in his return as is not his wont.

I turn away and nod my understanding to Halbarad and he bows with the bare tilt of his head. My lord shall have many more weeks of this enforced dependence, no matter what moves upon the Wild. It is no wonder he suffers.

Halbarad strides to the door and my lord's hand drops from his face.

"You go to see Master Maurus?" he calls after his kinsman.

"Aye," says Halbarad, his hand upon the latch. "And to take further report from Mathil and give him his commands as you asked."

"I shall go with you, then," my lord says, rising.

"Nay!" Halbarad says, waving his kin to his seat. "Do not trouble yourself. Best not raise suspicions, eh? Stay and rest. I shall be back upon the even's meal."

And with that, he is gone, the door banging swiftly shut behind him. My lord frowns but soon shakes his head and seats himself again. His chair creaks with his weight and my lord sighs. With a sudden movement, he sweeps up the stones from where they litter the map and begins stuffing them into their sack. He will be at it for some time. The stones are many, the mouth of the sack is soft, he has but one hand to use, and he uses more force than may be strictly necessary.

So, Halbarad has left it up to me. Had I my choice, it would be easiest to distract my lord with the sweetness of kisses and a soft, tender touch. I marvel were this, indeed, what Halbarad intended. Were I my lord's love, I think he might find comfort in it. But as it stands, I am uncertain should my lord welcome my advances upon him e'en should he be in the mood for them.

I have seated the forked poles securely against the beam and now raise it, sliding wood and cloth upon the uprights as it goes. The beam is heavy and the butts of the poles press into my belly so that I grimace at the weight. It is none so pleasant, but it works, at least most attempts, for I allow one end of the beam falter. I hiss with mayhap more displeasure than strictly necessary, and then struggle in truth, for my trickery has put me in real danger of tipping the upright upon the floor, and then dropping the heavy warp beam and cracking it beyond use.

A hand steadies the upright, my lord having come upon me swiftly from behind. I blush of a sudden, for I have not made such poor work of placing the warp beam since I was a young girl, and I am loath for my lord to consider me so inept. Together we lift the beam, I with my poles and my lord with his good arm, raising it high until it settles heavily into place atop the uprights.

"My thanks to you, my lord," I say as I lay aside the poles. "Forgive me for having disturbed you."

But he shakes his head and gives me his gentle smile. I think he is done here and about to go.

I stare up at the beam, making a show of squinting at it and considering what next to do. In truth, in our struggle, strands of the warp have become tangled in the notch between beam and upright.

"My lord," I say and his steps still, "Should I raise the beam, could you pull those free?" I nod to where the warp lies trapped beneath the beam. I could easily put them to rights myself, but mayhap he would not know this.

My lord raises his face to frown up at the warp where it is pinned.

"Aye," he says slowly and then casts about.

His face clears when I drag the bench I had pulled from beside the hearth closer to the loom. Unbalanced as he is with his arm lashed to his breast, my lord lays a light hand upon my shoulder to find his feet upon the bench. With the pole I lift the beam and my lord pulls the warp free. But, when done, he does not leap to the floor. Instead, he looks down upon the swinging yarns, puzzling out their tangles as I untie the bundles of warp threads and shake them loose.

"I do not recall you using such a thick stuff afore," he says and draws the wool between fingers and thumb. "Do you not use finer thread?"

"Aye, my lord, but the spinning depends upon the use," I say, combing the yarns apart with my fingers. Seeing that the threads I seek to untangle cling one tother above my head, he steps across the bench so he can card the warp for me with his fingers and ease my task.

"This I shall weave with another soft yarn," I go on to his puzzled frown, "and then take the cloth to the Weaver's shed and ask Master Theril to have it fulled. When 'tis done, my lord, it shall be a thick, sturdy blanket to keep out both cold and wet well-fit to the needs of those who wander."

We change places so I may go on pulling the bundles apart unhindered. I wonder at the look he gives me. It is all I can do to not flinch beneath it.

"My lord," I say, leaping into boldness the better to hide my unease, "now you are home, would you lend me your aid in its making, when you have the time to spare? It would go the quicker, then."

"I?" he says and laughs but does not say me nay. For though a woman may ply spindle and loom at home, 'tis the men who make of it their life's work. "I wonder you would wish to suffer the trial of my fumbling."

I smile. "Come the end, my lord, it most like be the greater hardship for you."

"Think you so?"

The smile my lord turns upon me is knowing, but he seems to delight in the challenge, natheless.

"What must I do, lady?" he asks with a lift of his chin.

"Well, my lord," I say and return to tugging the warp threads from their bundles. "We must establish the first shed and then tie the warp to their weights."

"The shed?"

"Aye, there will be four sheds, so should it please my lord, count every fourth yarn and drop it over that rod," and here I point to the shed rod that connects the uprights at the level of my knee, "we could begin. Later we will string the rest upon the heddle rods." I then point to the long rods lying on the floor.

My lord gives me a puzzled look but, with a wry shake of his head, seems willing to leave what he does not comprehend for later instruction. Stepping along the bench, he bends his head to peer at the warp upon the far end of the beam, frowning at the twists of thread. And then he pulls a yarn from its mates and releasing it, sets it to twisting behind the rod.

So the morning passed. With Elesinda and my lord's reeve at their day of rest and Halbarad dining with Master Maurus and his family, my lord commanded I be spare with my preparations for the noon meal. And, indeed, he insisted upon plundering the pantry himself, bringing out bread and cheese and toasting it o'er the hearth to eat with our ale while I put the last touches to a soup I had prepared of greens, beans, and mutton-bone. We ate swiftly and in silence, albeit companionably, and returned to our task.

My lord is of a quick and eager mind, and soon, between the two of us, the weights pull the warp taut, the heddles are threaded, and a finger's width of cloth grows down from the beam. My lord pulls at the heddles, murmuring to himself to keep his place, and atimes beats the weft up against the cloth with the weaver's sword.

In his stead, for the lack of his good arm, my lord set me to cataloguing the movements of his men, gleaning numbers, places and times from the reports that litter his table. I listen as I work to the chiming of the weights and the scuff of my lord's feet and the groaning of bench as he walks the width of the loom.

And thus we spent what was left of the day, I sitting upon a bench beside my lord's chair, bent o'er his journals and he, striding afore the loom and, upon occasion, cursing so softly I hear not the words. It is all I can do to keep the smile from showing on my face where my lord might easily read my thoughts. No matter my diversion, I would not have my lord think I belittle his efforts. As it is, I need bend all force of mind to my task. I have thought to draw the movements of his men upon the page, much as my lord places his stones upon his maps. I clutch the quill between tight fingers, slow to make my mark upon the parchment and careful of what I would place there, for I would not give cause for my lord's plans to falter nor he to find fault with the aid I offer.

"Lady," I hear and lift my head to find my lord frowning at his work.

"Aye, my lord?" I set aside the quill. Rising, I go to him. He taps the end of the wooden sword against his breast, his dissatisfaction spread broad across his face.

"What is this?" he asks, drawing the wooden tip across the cloth when I come close.

My lord has done well. The weave is tight and the edges even, for the most part, a passable effort. But I see what disturbs him. A long line lies upon the cloth, only truly seen should one's eyes be practiced to the weave.

"I fear, my lord, you lost track of the heddles at this point."

"Truly?" he asks, surprised and, I think, more than a little dismayed. He moves close in and then further away now that he can stand upon the floor, but not too far, tethered as he is to the loom by the bundle of weft thread. "Is there aught can be done to correct it?"

"No, my lord. I fear not. You must unwind your weaving unto that point and begin anew."

He scowls at the cloth and then scratches at his jaw, his fingers sounding harsh against his beard.

"There is naught else for it, my lord," I say. "Either suffer the fault or undo the work."

"Very well." He winds the length of weft upon itself. "I take it I need only reverse my steps?"

"Aye, my lord. But, when you start again, you must be careful of the edges. They creep inward so slowly you will not know it and shall soon have a much narrower piece than first you intended," I say, running my finger down the edge of the cloth and plucking at the guide thread so that it thrums low.

He scowls at the threads, watching my hands. I leave him to it and he sighs, but sets immediately to putting the cloth to rights as should the fault offend him and he wish it removed from his sight as soon as can be.

"How long should it be until I need not count each pass to keep my place?" he asks.

I gather my skirts about me and ease myself between the table and bench.

"I know not, my lord. I suppose not long, as it is a simple pattern." I stumble at my lord's look. Mayhap I should not have called it thus.

"Simple? And what qualifies as a master's work?"

"Verily, my lord, 'tis a simple pattern. I doubt not you will get the right of it soon enough." I take up the quill again. The end has split and I reach behind me for the knife my lord keeps in his tall chest against the wall.

"How old were you when you mastered this pattern?" He waves the sword at the warp behind him.

I swallow and consider the quill point I am attempting to shape and my answer. He will not like it. "I believe I had a full ten years, my lord."

All I am to receive in reply is a blank, disbelieving look, and then he turns back to the loom. I think the very wood and wool would quail should it have thought enough to perceive the grim look it gets.

"A child of ten," he mutters and pulls roughly on the heddle. The weights bang sharply against each other in a great discord. He pauses, and then deliberately eases the heddle to its supports. "Are you certain you have not the touch, lady?"

At this, I smile, for I cannot think how such a thing would have much to do with mastering somewhat as simple as the interweaving of threads. "Quite certain, my lord, unless my mother had the touch, as well. I am afraid you must continue your search for answers elsewhere."

He shakes his head. Though he does not respond 'tis certain he does not fully agree.

It is not long after he has corrected his error the door opens and Halbarad returns.

He stares, I think, surprised not only to see his lord and I still in the hall, but to see our roles so completely at opposites.

"Halbarad," my lord greets him mildly and then returns to beating the warp with a light hand.

"What is this you do?" his kinsman asks, drifting from the door to the loom.

"No more than what it looks, nor no less."

"Why?"

"Well," my lord says, lifting a shoulder, "for naught else, I am allowed the use of this." His eyes dance with suppressed mirth as he turns the weaver's sword about so Halbarad might examine each surface.

"Formidable, indeed, though mayhap a trifle dull, should you allow." Halbarad backs away from the loom, taking it in from top to bottom. "And so, this is what you have been at?"

"Aye, it goes slowly," my lord says. "I have only been at it since just after the noon meal."

"We come swiftly upon dusk, now." At a sharp look from his kin, Halbarad allows, "Mayhap it is bit cumbersome to attempt with one hand. All in all, it seems a fine bit of cloth."

He looks it over, and then squints and peers closely. "What happened there?" he asks and then backs away, tilting his head as were he attempting to gain a view of the whole.

"Where?" My lord follows his kin's gaze, scowling.

"There." Halbarad points at a line that falls as a thin shadow from edge to edge. "Does not the pattern falter?"

"It does no such—" my lord protests but then he falls silent of a sudden and the quiet is near as tense as a curse.

Aught more and I think I shall need bite through my tongue to quell my laughter.

"Well, my lord," Halbarad says and clears his throat. "Mayhap I should leave you to it, then."

I need not see the man's face to discern his amusement. Nor does my lord, for he clouts his kin upon his shoulder with the weaver's sword in a great slap.

"Enough out of you, or I will set you to it and you can find for yourself just how easily you take to it."

Halbarad makes his way to the buttery, chuckling and rubbing his shoulder, his stride easy. "My lady," says he and nods his greeting ere he ducks his head beneath its door.

"Did Mathil have much else to report?" asks my lord, raising his voice o'er the sound of his work.

"Eh?" calls Halbarad, his voice muffled behind the wood of the half-closed door. "Mathil? Nay, no more than we already knew from him afore."

"Indeed?" My lord pauses in his work to glance at the darkened buttery door.

"What of it?" Halbarad demands. He has emerged from the buttery with a cup of ale and comes to my lord's table.

"You were there for far more of the day needed to gain so little news." My lord has turned his attention away, but, for some reason, looks rather pleased. "Did I not say it? You had little to worry on Mathil's account. His eyes follow you all places you may go. Mayhap I shall now have some relief and need not heed the habitual recital of your misgivings."

Though his look is somewhat pained, Halbarad snorts and goes on as though my lord had not spoken, "Elder Maurus had much to say, though not much on where Bachor obtains his supplies of wine and more of aught he has e'er said afore. 'Tis a marvel the stars still stand and the sun rises upon the break of day."

Halbarad eases himself to the bench across from where I sit. The breath he releases o'er his cup is long in suffering.

My lord chuckles from his place by the loom. "And how fares Maurus? Will he attend the Council upon the morrow?"

"No, I think not." Halbarad scrubs at the back of his head and yawns mightily. "'Twould not surprise me should he take to bed in preparation for the end of all things."

"Halbarad," says my lord, his voice mild. "Much of the Angle stands as it does because of him."

Halbarad shakes his head and grimaces. "Aye, I do not contest it, but I wonder at his hold upon the Council at his age," he says, his voice rising and look vexed. "The Council needs but one firm hand, not the six it has."

My lord turns a kind albeit brief look upon his kin ere returning to his work.

"Aye, aye! 'Patience! Have faith!'" Halbarad says and sighs, stretching his legs out beneath the table. "'Tis hard when the days grow short."

Their words had not disturbed me, though I listen. But now their silence seems as a shout. I raise my head to find Halbarad looking upon me, and I wonder at his thoughts. His brows are knit with concern.

"My lady, what is it you do?" He leans across the table.

I turn the journal about, so he may better see the page. Numbers, dots, and arrows mar the surface of my makeshift map. "I have all but the last of my lord's men to account for of what we know of this last month."

"Eh!" he grunts, his brow rising. "Seems our lists were plain enough."

I drag the journal back to its place afore me. Despite my lord's quiet approval of the work, Halbarad's words sting as had he slapped my hand away as would a parent of a young child. My lord is very quiet at his work by the loom. I know not his thoughts on the matter.

Halbarad returns my gaze steadily and slowly spins his cup between his palms. I must stare at the man, for I cannot account for his ill-temper. _Ai!_ I shall profit nothing from a contest of wills on such foreign soil as this.

With some effort, I drop my eyes to stare at the marks upon the page afore me. I confess it, some of the joy of it has drained from the work. I hope I had not expected praise from the man, but surely not such censure was deserved.

With this, Halbarad releases a slow breath and takes up his ale. I am unsure why this must enflame me, but it does, and a heat rises to my thoughts so I know not the meaning of what I had just put upon the page. Be he kin of the man or no, how dare he visit his ill mood upon me in such a way as to demean me afore my lord and husband!

"My lord," I say, dipping the nib to the inkhorn and making a deliberate mark upon the page. "Would it not be the role of the Council to assure that Mistress Nesta has what she needs for the health of the Angle's folk, especially now Master Dwalin's folk no longer travel across the Great Road?'

Halbarad peers at me from o'er the rim of his cup and my lord pauses in his work. For a long moment, he stands very still and considers me keenly.

"I do not question the wisdom of your foresight on this matter, lady, but that is not your purpose, is it? To what end would you put the Council to it?"

I shift in my seat, though I do not look up from my lord's journal.

"The wine Elder Bachor provides the mistress is not of the Southfarthing, but I do not recognize it, my lord. I doubt I may discover the source, but enough of when he provided it, how much, and of what type it is to give you a start."

"And why might wine of Southfarthing be of significance, my lady?" Halbarad has set down his cup and scowls at me from across the table.

I falter. He must truly think me both blind and deaf to the events in my lord's hall. I stare mutely at the man.

At this, my lord carefully sets the loom at rest, releasing the heddle rod he had been holding to its supports. Hanging the wooden sword upon its hook, he strides to the table and, easing his legs o'er the bench, takes a seat beside his kin. There he turns an impassive look upon me.

I set the quill upon its rest and remove my hands to my lap, where it seems my eyes are drawn. Oh,_ ai!_ I have been most unwise and tread upon things my betters would think well beyond me. I know of women who have been shunned by their husbands and kin for less than this. I dare not look full upon them, the men of my house arrayed together across the table from me.

My lord's look betrays naught of his thoughts, and now do I greatly regret attempting an attack upon his kin's fitness. I know not how I thought my lord would not detect my purpose nor my perception of what he might not wish me to have greater understanding. At the least, I shall have many months of hard work repairing what trust I might hope to regain. At the most, I may have sundered myself from my lord in all but name, all for a poorly played moment of pettiness.

"Forgive me, my lord," I say and clear my throat, staring at my lap. "I should not –"

"I am not the one owed apology, lady," he says.

At this, I release a slow breath as quietly as I dare. _Ai, merciful Nienna_. I swallow what pride I have left and speak. "Forgive me, Ranger Halbarad. I should not have seen fit to take precedence in matters that are yours."

I dare a quick glance at the man and he nods, though his face as soft as stone.

"I weary of your contentions," my lord states flatly. "They will not be aired afore me again."

To my surprise, his stern look takes in both Halbarad and I. I know not how to respond, for I was unaware of any strife between his kin and I afore today. Aye, well, I doubt my lord in any mood to accept my protests. There is naught for it but to nod in agreement.

"Now, answer the question put to you, lady," he commands.

"As it please you, my lord," I say and, nodding briefly to the map I had yet to finish, watch as my hand worries at the web of skin between thumb and finger. "'Tis clear, my lord, from your councils with your men upon this past winter, the maps with your markers that you leave upon the table, and now with the ordering of your men's comings and goings that you are much concerned with securing the border of the land of the Halflings against incursion of our Enemy. In doing so, you have left much of our own folk unguarded."

"What do you think of this?"

I shake my head. "'Tis not my place to sit in judgment upon you, my lord."

"That is not what I asked," he says and points at me. He then taps upon the table afore me. "Do not think I have missed that you hide much from me, lady. I have no need to know all of it. But these are matters of grave importance and I would know the thoughts of my household on them. Speak fully, or we shall ne'er speak of it again and I shall exercise a much greater caution."

At this, it is as had I been plunged in cold water of great depth. For, at this moment, I cannot breathe and all else feels numb and the hall about me at a great remove. An I thought my lord circumspect in revealing his heart and his mind with me afore, should I fail of his trust, how lonely and cold the marriage bed shall I make for myself. For he is sure to set a guard upon me to ensure my compliance and ne'er speak to or touch me unless it is to see to the making of his heir.

I set the nail of my thumb to the skin pinched between thumb and forefinger and hope the pain shall sharpen my thoughts.

"I have ever known you willing to bear the burden of our protection," I say, "no matter the cost. I can only think there must be somewhat or someone in that land you prize as necessary for our defense. It must be of great significance to the Nameless One, else you would not have taken to your journeying so hard upon Lord Mithrandir's visit. And him newly come from the Shire to seek you out."

My lord makes a small thoughtful sound. "And what think you Elder Bachor has to do with the matter?"

"'Tis not just him. You would not wish any folk of the Angle to have dealings with Bree or the Shire, for it would risk drawing eyes upon it you would not wish to linger there. I would think, too, you would not wish those of the Angle to know of your plans, or, at least, to delay their full understanding as long as you are able. Elder Bachor has the wit to discern our situation easily, should he have news, and he has the ear of those who would not take to it kindly. You need this time to build upon the Angle's goodwill what defenses you can for them. Should he discover the whereabouts of your men, we are sure to have little goodwill and little time."

I have released the skin of my hand, leaving it dark about a half-moon of imprinted flesh. I rub at the ink that stains the forefinger of my writing hand and await my lord's judgment upon me.

A great clap of an open palm upon the table startles me so badly I jerk upon my seat and my eyes fly up to find Halbarad's eyes fixed upon my lord. For my lord has taken to smiling softly upon me and his eyes shine with somewhat of gratification and relief. I know not why, but Halbarad's features are both grim and sad. He shakes his head as had he somewhat he would say but is not allowed the right. He rises swiftly from his seat, the edge of his boot knocking upon the bench in his haste. I can only stare at his back as he strides to the great door and mumbles somewhat of seeking out Master Baran. With a jerk, he snatches the door open and disappears behind it.

"Lady."

'Tis only then I can turn to my lord. He had watched his kin's departure. But now, he wipes at his mouth and chin, and, once his hand drops to the table, turns a sober look upon me.

"It seems 'tis I who owes you amends, lady. I had had no real hope of concealing the movements of my men and the importance it reveals from you, but had not given much thought to your understanding of the ramifications."

"My lord?"

"Introduce your proposal to the Council," he says in a low, steady voice. "Should you learn aught of Elder Bachor's dealings with those outside the Angle, I would know them. But do so with great care. Aye, he is subtle of thought and not much happens that goes without his notice. An you can reason so clearly to our purpose, so can he. Should it seem your attempts reveal too much, desist from them and we will pursue another route by which to discover what risks his sources present. He is a member of the Council and one of our kin. Your presence on the Council is a discomfort for him as it is. It is to no one's good should he have reason to feel we have set ourselves against him."

With this, he twists about upon the bench and, pressing the fingers of his good hand to the table, lifts himself to standing. He says naught more but, glancing briefly at the pattern growing down from the warp beam, pulls on the correct heddle, takes up the bundle of weft wool, and resumes his work at the loom.

~oOo~

AN: 9/6/19: Well, dear readers, we have reached something of a milestone here. We are now 1/3rd of the way through this story, which is very appropriate. Today is the 1 year anniversary of when I picked this story back up and started to reshape it.

I initially began this journey 14 years ago. My earliest files are dated from March 2005, so you can imagine what it has been like to have these characters and their journey living in my head for so long. I am very fond of them. And we have reached yet another milestone. I have finished writing the very last chapter that was left undone. I have always known what the end was going to be, but the middle was a bit of a muddle. Oh, I'm sure I'll edit and tweak for many weeks ahead of me, but it is now in its final form, and I find myself a bit bereft.

So, two things.

I'm going to take a brief hiatus. Just a week. I want to let things settle a bit before I go back to editing. The next two chapters will be posted on 9/21/19.

If there are outtakes or timestamps or other such that you'd like to see, I'm open for requests. I've gotten a request for something from Aragorn's point of view, so I guess we'll see if something takes root and grows into something that I can share. :)


	25. Chapter 24

~ Chapter 24 ~

_Look not to me for healing! I am a shieldmaiden and my hand is ungentle._

ROTK: The Steward and the King

~oOo~

_~ TA 3009, 19__th__ day of of Urimë: Master Herdir reports six days-work owed and not yet paid upon this the first day of harvest. Four due to ill health and pardoned. One due to broken bone and pardoned. One not yet discovered. _

~oOo~

Scratches lie in faint trails upon the back of my hands as paths amidst dusty plains. Ah, but they itch for the stinging salt of my own sweat! No help for it but to keep on. The line of men snakes dark against the wall of grain, and, at a glance, I know the lass who bears the buckets of water makes her slow way hither. The men have stripped to the waist and bend their backs to the harvest, their sickles striking the straw and rattling the heads of rye. We women follow, binding what the men reap into sheaves. Dirt crumbles beneath my knees as I kneel and twist a thin handful of straw into a makeshift cord. _Ai! _But my throat is parched and waiting for relief a sore trial.

These are the days of the harvest and all the Angle is pressed to its service. Not only do the men reap and women bind, but their lads and lasses bend to earth, for their eyes are the sharpest and they glean fallen berries their elders would miss. None are so low as to fail of their service, nor so high. Even my lord bends beneath the sun and swings his borrowed sickle, though he seems better suited to felling orc than fistfuls of rye and barley.

Upon my rising, I found my bed empty and my lord already about, though the sun had not yet tipped above the meadow. Swift was my dressing, for I pulled on naught but my most ragged of linen dresses and wrapped my hair tight beneath a soft brimmed hat, for I knew I would spend the day laboring in the fields. I burst into the hall upon quick feet, having taken to my lord's habit of tripping lightly down the stair, and then halted. My lord was there awaiting me, with the morning's meal laid out afore him.

"Ah, good," he said. He closed his journal with a thump and set it aside. "You are ready."

My feet were slow to bring me to join him, for I had much to marvel o'er. My lord sat comfortably upon his chair, dressed in no more than his light shirt and breeches. Upon the table, tea steeped in a cup set in what must have been my place. A cup of ale sat afore my lord. Half gone it was already. He had tasted, too, of freshly baked oak cakes which were not of my making. It seemed he had attempted to wait for me in breaking his fast but failed somewhat. In this I could not blame him, for the cakes smelled of apricot and some rare spice I had found in the pantry but knew not how to use nor e'en its name. And I could only wonder at what lay bundled in the bucket that sat upon the far end of the table. No doubt it was our noon meal, prepared and packed ere I had even thought to see to it.

"My lord?"

He looked up from where he thrust his journal into the tall chest. "Aye, lady, I have drawn more ale, should that be what you wish, instead. But I thought you partial to tea upon rising and the ale we can bring with us."

"You go to work the harvest, my lord?"

"Aye," he said and then caught my look. "Unless you think I be unwelcome." Doubt troubled his face, though briefly and leaving little trace once it was gone.

"No, my lord, I think your folk eager to see you no matter the occasion."

"That is well," he said and, at that moment, I thought sure the dawn outshone by his face. "Come then!" He waved me to the place he had set for me and placed a cake there. "Eat, for the sun rises and we must soon make haste. I think it not a good thing for the Lord of the Dúnedain to be the last to arrive upon the first day of the harvest when his people have risen early for their work."

I sat with some hesitance and my lord smiled, for I think he caught my sniffing at the piece I had broken off my cake.

"Think you it poisoned, lady?" he asked and his eyes twinkled above the rim of his cup.

"No, my lord." I said and cast my eyes down as was proper. "I would think, as you have eaten of it ere I sat to it, any ill effects should be seen by now, and you seem well enough."

He laughed into his cup and wiped at his mouth after. The look he gave me was of both wonderment and delight equally mixed and I ate the easier for it.

I stoop to bind the bundle of barley, and the grasses rustle and creak in my arms and smell of the dryness of the dust and sun. The shadow of my lord falls upon me and he lets drop yet more for me to gather up and make fast. His hair lies bound against his neck so it might not fall into his eyes as he works, and his shirt he has tied about his waist. Sweat beads upon his face and back and he halts but a moment to wipe at his brow and then steps back into the rhythm of grasp of barley and swing of sickle. My lord seems well-healed, for he works long and does not weary.

Ah, is not my lord the hardiest of men of this Age? For it shows in the care with which his frame is knit and the keen mind that gives it life.

I shake my head free of my thoughts. The grain shall not pluck from the ground and fly into our granaries of itself.

Flocks of crows circle high overhead or croak from nearby branches. Ahead, a large black-winged bird alights and struts along the furrows, thinking, mayhap, to snatch the grain from beneath our very guard. Soon, the dogs shall bark and the children run, and a great cawing and flapping of wings will answer their assault. Oft the retreat is but a feint, no more than a few yards away and the gangs of youngsters cry after them and throw stones as they give chase. Atimes, it seems I see mirth in those black, twinkling eyes as they hop away and wonder what sport the crows find in these games, for, true, they take to the air, but only to begin it all again.

I rise to lean the shock of grain against its mates and when I look again, my lord stands tall, his sickle dangling in his loose grasp. The lass has at last come upon us and so eager is he to pour the cup down his throat, water trickles through his beard and upon his neck. He has grown dark for his days out of doors and the sheen of sweat upon his back captures the very sun.

Ah! Since our conference there in my lord's hall of the weeks afore, my thoughts grow wild and willful and I despair of taming them. For he has done as he promised, and it is a rare rising of the sun that I am not awakened to it by the soft touch of my lord's hands and lips. He is as the flower's nectar and I am as the bee, having but once been given its taste, ever am I beholden to its sweetness.

_Ai,_ but I burn!

His smile earns my lord one in return below the bare dip of a head from the water-bearer. Her gaze, too, seem ascendant o'er her will as much as mine. She cuts her eyes at him though she turns away, for others draw near and would dip into the water with their cups. My lord has greetings for them, as well, and they seem as easily drawn to the sight of him.

Aye, but it does his folk good to look upon him, their lord. They much regret his absence though I must hope they allow its need. In his place, I make for a poor substitute. Their eyes, it seems, hold a curious shadow when they look upon me and think I know it not. They puzzle over me, it seems, as much as I over them. And now, when they see us two together, my lord and I, I think they wonder. For I have caught many a glance upon the change of the season after each of my lord's farewells, swiftly withdrawn though they are, but that take in the fall of my skirts and measure for aught of change. My lord gives little thought to the fondness of touch or glance, either within his house where we are private, nor abroad when we are not. And I think his people begin to wonder for it.

My lord has caught sight of me as I stand, my burden set down, stretching my back. Aye, I shall be stiff upon my next morn's rising. He begs of the lass bearing water another dip into the bucket and bears the cup to me. Sweet is the water, though warm, and sweeter still the gladness that lights upon my lord's face. I think he has as much need of his folk as they of him.

"What think you of the harvest, my lord?"

"Ah, lady!" he says and his gaze travels far over the fields and the backs bent upon them. His eyes shine upon the sight. "I am blessed for it."

"And your arm, my lord?"

"Nay," he says and twists it about, working his hand into a fist. "It pains me not." His face turns to me and he smiles. "Worry not, lady."

And so, I drink of the water and the sight of my lord much renewed by work without fear or hurt to hinder him.

When I lower the cup, I find my lord frowns and his gaze seems much taken by my wrist. It is not until he has taken my hand in his and turned it that I see the blood upon my sleeve. It is but a dark shadow upon the linen, but my lord drops his sickle at his feet and takes the cup from me. He pushes the sleeve aside so he can see the skin below. It is naught but a scratch taken in my carelessness upon lifting the sheaves and I would think it of little concern. But he looses my hand only to tug at his shirt and dip a corner of the cloth into what water remains in the cup so he might tend to my hurt. He rubs at the tender skin of my wrist, holding my hand in his.

"Let it dry ere you return to your work, lady, and it will heal cleanly," says he.

I think him done, but he turns my hand about and it seems he is displeased for their marring. It would make me smile, for my lord bears scars white upon his skin that he has taken in our service, but for the thought one day such a wound may take my lord from his folk. I wonder, then, whose hands he knows are so fine as to ne'er bear signs of labor.

_"What doth my lord know of women?"_

_"In truth?"_ he asks in kind and his eyes come upon me. _"Little,"_ says he, _"for I have not lived amongst them since my youth, though I learn more daily."_ This last he offers with a flash of a young boy's smile. _"At the least, I have learned to have little hope of persuading thee to forebear from working the harvest, though it brings thee discomfort."_

But this does not tickle my mirth, as my lord no doubt intended.

_"I would defy no command of thine, my lord." _

"No," says he and his face falls full sober. "You would not. But,_ thou art the lady of the Dúnedain_, were I to force you against your will, I would care little for the price it would cost me."

I can think of naught to say in reply, for I had thought my lord's will of such supremacy o'er his folk he need not consider its effect. Nor had I thought he would set the price of my good will so high.

'Twas these thoughts, then, that disturbed my mind when we returned to the harvest. I knew not when the sun traversed the sky and when we had come near the end of the furlongs we worked. All through the binding and carrying of sheaves, in the heat and the dust and the bright sun, I felt none of it. I only knew I had my lord's regard and felt dizzy and wine-besotted for it.

~oOo~


	26. Chapter 25

~ Chapter 25 ~

_Indeed there is a power in Rivendell to withstand the might of Mordor, for a while: and elsewhere other powers still dwell. There is power, too, of another kind in the Shire. But all such places will soon become islands under siege, if things go on as they are going. The Dark Lord is putting forth all his strength._

FOTR: Many Meetings

~oOo~

_~ TA 3009, 5__th__ day of __Yavannië__: Ranger Haldren found north of the Angle but making his way slowly on one lame leg and makeshift splint. He carries naught but his sword and the head of the orc that slew his horse and sends word of scouts as near as the source of the Mithithiel. Ranger Mathil sent with supplies to replace Haldren's kit, his own mount and one of my lord's horses to bring him home. _

~oOo~

"My lady," Elesinda says, "shall I save this or put it to the geese?" She tips a bowl toward me with the heels and scraps of bread, near half a loaf.

"Aye, save it and let it dry," I say. "The plums ripen quickly and we could make a pudding of it."

She smiles and I know she thinks either of Halbarad's love of sweets or my attempts to coddle my lord, or mayhap both. Either thought brings a fondness to her face and I am well pleased.

My lord spends far too many of his day gaunt of frame, to my way of thinking. He caught me, once, as we lay in the solar upon his return and I marveling how, were the world just, my lord would be eating more oft of the bounty of the land he protects.

"How many ribs have I?" His voice had been mild, taking delight in knowing my thoughts ere I had spoken them.

"Far too many that I can count, my lord," I said, and he had given me his gentle smile in exchange.

Aye, he must spend much of his time away dining on hard crackers and rainwater; for I know he pushes himself without relenting and spends more time in swift travel from one place to another and precious little time in filling his belly. I might put much thought into the baking of my lord's provisions, adding flavor with rosemary or eking out the rare spices from the pantry with honey to sweeten the taste, but a constant diet of the stuff must dull the palate. Bread, roast perch from the river, and a simple stew of smoked pork, white beans, onion, and greens from our gardens I laid afore him tonight and my lord ate as had he not seen the like since last he was home, and I doubt not that this be the truth of the matter.

"Would you finish with the rest?" I ask and Elesinda nods.

"Aye, my lady," she says, and I leave her with a brief hand upon her shoulder.

When I come to the hall, my lord sits, his long legs stretched beneath his table and a cup of ale within reach. Halbarad left with Ranger Mathil and once they see Haldren safe, he is to travel about the lands that surround the Angle gathering word from my lord's men. We shall not see him until after the harvest. My lord has commanded the table upon our return from the fields. There he gathers all news to one place where he can see it spread afore him. He does not look up when I enter nor when I pile the pots one into the other from where they cool about the hearth. He scrubs at his jaw and his face is grim as he reaches for and sips from his cup. It might as well contain rancid water than the ale I know he favors, little as he seems to enjoy it. Ah, my lord is at his maps again.

The coals have cooled beneath the grate. Kneeling, I pour water into a clean pot and set it upon the metal, stirring the fire and raking coals into position below it. I have had ale with my supper. Some tea, mayhap then, while I join my lord at the table and write in the day's journal and plan for the morrow.

Ah, we have little honey left. I must send Elesinda to the market upon the morrow or the next day. My lord deserves better meat upon his table than he had tonight. And mayhap I shall take another try at a dish of pease. I have mint, and though it is not to my taste, I know of those who boil pease with mint and a spoon of honey. My own taste has misled me afore in the way of what my lord finds pleasing, mayhap I shall have more success going against it. And then, butter and eggs we have to spare, but my lord's pudding shall need sweetening. Honey, then it is. Aye, he may be tall, but my lord need not be so lean. This, at the least, I can do.

"Lady, come sit with me."

I raise my head to find my lord looking upon me. He lays a light hand upon the bench near him that I had abandoned after the meal. Puzzled, I grab up a cloth to clean my hands and, leaving the water to come to a boil on its own, make my way to the table. I fear not, for I have seen the set of my lord's jaw tighten in anger afore, and though his look now is solemn, he seems in no way displeased with me.

"Aye, my lord?"

"What know you of our position in the North?" he asks when I round the table, and my brows rise in response. I wonder he would want to hear my thoughts on the matter.

But my lord drags the bench close beside him and there I sit. Afore us lie his maps. I pore o'er their surface as I wipe my hands, my lord watching me, until I toss aside the linen and cast about, frowning in thought. As ever, my lord seems to know my mind and he twists about in his chair, reaching his long arm and snagging his bag of colored stones. I take them from him and pour them into my hand, cream and black. They are cool and smooth as I weigh them in my palm.

"Well, my lord," say I and take a deep breath, "our foes swiftly hem us in, and should we not prevent it, we shall soon be sundered from the rest of our kin."

My lord looks upon me a long moment ere shifting in his chair until he sits upright.

"How do you know this?" By the solemnity of his voice, his words seem more a prompt for me to continue than challenge. He taps a finger upon the map. "Show me what has come to pass and what you fear may yet be."

I take a light-colored stone from its mates, where they clink one against the other.

"The farmsteads and villages of your people, my lord, were, at one time, greatly scattered." Here I place the lighter stones between the Misty Mountains and land of the Halflings and Breefolk. "When first I came to your house, my lord, they spread as far north as Mount Gram and the Twilight Hills and as south as Tharbad, but no longer in any great number."

My lord is silent and it seems I am to continue.

"Your people, my lord, tell me of trolls who venture forth from the Ettenmoors, orcs spilling from the Misty Mountains, and men of old Carn Dûm who attack our northern holdings."

As I speak, I prod the stones from their places and herd them toward the tip of Angle and the Hills of Evendim upon the shores of the Lake.

"They speak of wolves that run in packs of the size and boldness ne'er seen afore. Their eyes burn as coals and their bites swiftly poison. They speak of young children snatched from their tofts and ne'er to be seen again. Those who live apart from their folk dare not go out when the sun sets and go hungry for the flocks and cattle they have lost. They speak of the glow of fire upon the mountaintops at the edge of the northern wastes and a gathering darkness about the lands of the wild, and seek comfort in greater numbers."

I then turn my attention to those stones I have placed south of the Angle and sweep them west into the arms of the Blue Mountains.

"Strange men have been seen along the Old South Road, traveling in groups or singly and tales of your folk put to the sword follow them. They kill the men and children and leave them where they lie, yet none of the womenfolk are to be found among them. We know not where they were taken. Fear of them drive your folk to the south to the sea."

At this, my lord's face grows grave and sad. It seems to me he walks amidst the wreckage of some distant memory. I fall silent and toy with the stones in my hand. They have grown warm and stick to my skin. The telling brought me no joy and brings my lord only pain.

With a touch, my lord halts my restless stirring of the stones. Gently he opens my fingers and empties my hand. Dark stones he places in Mirkwood, the High Pass north of Imladris in the Misty Mountains, about the Mountains of vanquished Angmar, upon Caradhras the seat of Moria, and upon Dunland to the south. Yet, even then, he does not stop, but pours out more stones from their pouch and goes on until small islands of light pebbles float amidst an embracing black sea and then, finally, are submerged beneath it.

I know not what I feel at the story my lord's stones tell. It cannot be news, surely, to any who live in these times, yet, how bleak the tale to see years unfold afore me in a moment's span.

My lord's face is grim. He sits back in his chair and eases his arm in his lap. Of late, it pains him seldom, and then only when weary or heavy of heart.

I think I know my lord's thoughts. His men are thinly spread and we are most vulnerable to the east and the south. Tightening the net about the land of the Halflings as he has done has left great rents in our defense against the orcs multiplying beneath the Misty Mountains. Aye, my lord seeks to buy time. Precious, indeed, may be its price.

"My lord," I say and a soft sound grants me the right to speak. "What of the men of the Angle? Can they not relieve your Rangers for other duties?"

A keen glance from him tells me my lord has considered this. "Does not the Angle require their services to provision and shelter her people?"

"Aye," I say and shift a bit uncomfortably upon the bench.

"You believe the Angle could manage." His eyes seem made of lances, so sharp is their gaze, and he leans o'er the table the better to take in the tale of the stones.

"Not easily, mayhap," I say. "But I think, my lord, they will feel the better for a hand in their own defense."

My lord is silent and he scrapes his fingers softly through his beard, staring at the letters and crudely drawn maps littering his table.

"Is it not a matter of pride," say I, "that a man may provide for the safety of those he loves? I see little reason why it must be reserved only for your Rangers."

A soft huff of laughter greets this pronouncement and I lift my gaze.

"No, I suppose not." I see he is smiling, though the mirth is slight. "Very well," he says, sobering. "Should you think it best, we shall muster the men."

At these words my heart gives a startling thump and I feel as had the floor tilted beneath me. _Ai!_ Should I think it best! I had thought only to relieve my lord of his fears. What have I done?

My lord leans back against his chair and shakes his head, frowning. "But I deem it unwise to withdraw all the Rangers from the Angle. A portion will remain and watch upon the furthest borders. And I would not have a small force of men of the Angle dedicated to the task. The day may come when we will need every man who may wield ax and knife and bow as well as a hoe or spade. It would be best to set them all to it and share the burden among them." "Or rather," he says, and his face lightens, "to share in its honor."

"Lady?" I hear. I find my lord frowning, and I wonder how long he has been speaking and I did not know it.

His frown eases and he looks upon me with some pity. "Worry not overmuch, lady." His thumb comes to gently smooth away the line between my brows and then drops away. "I had it in my heart to ask this very thing of our folk but knew not how it would be received and thought to wait. Think you this day is upon us and they will accept the charge?"

"Should you ask it of them, my lord, aye, I believe they would."

"Then I shall," says he. "But I shall expect you to stand beside me when I do so. Should you think yourself able to take a hand to the decision, then you must see it through, to the bitter end should need be."

I suppose it is only truth he speaks, though I quail at the thought.

"To Halbarad I have left the ordering of the Rangers of the North. He it is that provides for the safety of the Dúnedain when my travels take me from the Angle. But now the need is great and the numbers of those who may meet it grows ever smaller. Even now I must send Halbarad where I would send myself, we are so few."

Here my lord sweeps a hand over the darkened map. "The Shadow grows, lady. My voice must be heard in the councils and in the ordering of the people of the Angle, and I need Halbarad free of these duties."

Of a sudden I am aware my lord studies me, his gaze burning upon my face.

"What do you wish of me, my lord?"

My lord does not smile, but somewhat softens in his gaze. "May I take from you your Great Hound, lady?"

And by this I know I shall sit upon the Councils of myself and bend their ears by my voice alone. And, aye, it is time. For the fortress I seek to build takes shape e'en now.

So fond, then, is the brush of his knuckles along my cheek, I think then my lord will press his lips to mine and there give me thanks, for but a hint of desire burns in his eyes. But he does not, for in an instant the warmth of his gaze has fled, and he turns away swiftly to hide what follows.

~oOo~

I left my lord in the hall. He had moved to a cushioned bench afore the hearth so he may lay upon it in comfort, looking upon its embers and smoking his pipe. Though I lingered in my tasks of the even, soon the hall was tidied and prepared for the morn, my account of the day was complete and the ink dry, and the wool and spindle put away. I did not bid my lord his good night, for I thought, despite the reserve that settled about him as the hours lengthened, he might yet follow me upstairs. But he did not, and when I unlaced the dress from my body, unwound the length of cloth from my hair, and washed the day from my face and hands, I did so alone, my thoughts much occupied with my lord's abstinence.

Were I to think upon all the hours of pleasure we have had of each other, my lord is ever attentive to what might bring me enjoyment. I have no complaint of him. But he indulges in little of it of his own. A thing of duty he would perform to his best, but a thing of duty natheless. He asks for naught and distracts me should I attempt to discover what would please him. And I let him. Should we continue as we have, a thing of duty this shall remain. And 'tis said duty may bind a man to what he must do, but 'tis the ties of the heart that give him the strength to do it when it would cost him dearly.

Somewhat moves my lord to give care to those beyond our borders greater weight than those within them. Should I build this fortress my lord desires, I must have as much of his heart as my lord has it in him to give. He must love the Angle and those within in to make aught else but its endurance a rending of his heart.

I stand beside the bed, dressed in naught but my shift and know the groaning of the boards beneath my feet tell my lord the tale of my preparations. Mayhap my lord waits until he hears the wood of our bed creak with my laying down upon it. But, now I consider it, even then I think he shall linger in the hall, until all noise is stilled and he knows me asleep.

The bed is soft and would gladly welcome my weight, cradling my limbs until I fall to my slumbers. Less certain am I of the comforts to be had should I set my feet to the solar stairs and return to the hall, but it is there I go instead. For I have been a coward. 'Tis no other name for it. I have allowed my lord to set terms and lived within what might bring comfort, and no more.

I come afore my lord and kneel at his feet, sitting upon my heels. Deep are the shadows that fall upon the corners of the hall, and my lords sits in a small circle of waning light. His pipe had gone cold and yet he lingered, watching the fire burn down. At the sound of my bare step upon the stairs and into the hall, my lord had raised himself to sitting and laid aside his pipe.

"Lady?" he asks, and by his voice I know him worried for me, but I do not answer.

Ah, but my heart pounds so wildly within my breast it sends the blood rushing to my head and I am weak and deaf for it. Though I dare not meet my lord's gaze, ne'er have I been so bold, for I untie the thong that holds my hair in its braid. Aye, I make a mess of undoing the plait, so unequal are my fingers to the task, but I know enough now of my lord's desires to know he would wish to set his hands in my hair.

It is when I tug upon the tie that draws my shift closed about my shoulders my lord's hand comes up beneath my chin and forces me to look upon his face. There I find, not the refusal I most greatly feared, but a look of grave concern that falls away of a sudden when my lord laughs.

"What is it you have planned, lady, that lights your eye with such wickedness?" he asks, and I must bite upon my lip for I cannot otherwise temper my smiling.

For, indeed, I would make of my lord an accomplice in my scheming, and by the look he gives me, I think him not wholly unwilling. Ah! He is so careful to master his own urges. Should he allow it, what indeed shall I discover of him that he knew not even of himself? Oh, but it is a stirring thing, my lord's face painted in light and shadow and looking upon me so, and my heart lifts for it.

"There is a thing, my lord, of which the wives of the Angle speak."

"Indeed?"

"Aye, my lord."

There is naught about my lord of reluctance, indeed he smiles, amused, I think, at my impertinence. "And what would you have of me, lady?"

With that, my hands have found their way to my lord's knees and there do they play upon the cloth that covers them.

"_I would have thee beg for thy completion, my lord."_

At this, he blinks and stares at me. All his former mirth has fled and there leaves behind a stunned look. Yet, he suffers my touch and, despite its boldness, raises no protest. When I run light fingers upon the tender flesh of his thighs and make room for myself between them, he grasps upon the bench to steady himself. There he takes in a long breath, his eyes caught upon my lips where they are bitten and wet as I ease the long leather of his belt about his tunic from its knot.

"And would you tell me of this thing, lady, this thing of which the women speak?"

"No, my lord."

~oOo~


	27. Chapter 26

~ Chapter 26 ~

"_For it has no virtue that we know of, save perhaps to sweeten a fouled air, or to drive away some passing heaviness. Unless, of course, you give heed to rhymes of old days which women such as our good Ioreth still repeat without understanding.'"_

ROTK: The Houses of Healing

~oOo~

_~ TA 3009, 23__rd__ day of __Yavannië__: Toast hazelnuts til fragrant, rub in linen cloth to remove skins and let cool. Chop fine, add good handful of flour and honey. Rub into a paddle of butter, form into balls, and let sit in a cool place. Bake until pale golden brown about the bottom. _

~oOo~

My lord laughs, his back leaning upon his chair and his hand curling about a cup of ale, for Halbarad has returned and tells the tale of his travails.

"You left me Melethron. Of all men, Melethron?" my lord's kinsman protests. "He cannot keep a thought in his head that does not come out betwixt his lips. From here to the Last Bridge to Weathertop and back, ever his yammering sounded in my ears."

My lord laughs, and I think he has had his own time upon the Wild with no other ear to diffuse the man's talk. I smile from where I kneel by the hearth, for I, too, am acquainted with the man's too glib tongue.

Halbarad's return was looked for late in the day and so he arrived hard upon the evening meal. He has thrown down his pack and stretched his boots out upon the floor. He sits at the table with his lord as smoke from their pipes drifts o'er their heads, and waits for the meal to be made ready.

"Come now," Halbarad goes on when my lord shows no signs of pity for him. "I now know more of the fathering of his children than I think even their mother acquainted."

My lord chuckles about the stem of his pipe ere removing it, for the leaf in its bowl is naught but ash. He rises. "You should be giving your thanks to me, then, not pouring complaints into my ear. Just think, Halbarad, how much more prepared you shall be when it comes your turn."

This last earns him a snort from his kinsman and a spoon flung at him, which my lord neatly dodges so that it goes skittering across the floor below my loom.

"It is not as I can leave you Mathil, yet again," my lord says. "I must field complaints of preference enough as it is. And Mathil is still young and - "

"Aye, aye, needs the experience should we wish him to take a greater role," his kin interrupts with a sour look ere rising to his feet to retrieve the spoon from where it is wedged between clay weights.

"Worry not so," says my lord, coming upon the hearth. "Haldren will watch over him. He will be but long enough away to sweeten the return."

My lord smiles upon me when he squats to scrape the ash from his pipe. I lift the lid to the clay oven where it sits above the coals. The released steam smells of bread and spice, and my lord turns his head so he may better smell what bakes there. 'Tis browned pork sausage rolled deep in a pouch of thick pastry, the same I had served my lord in the first weeks in his house. The fat from the sausage seeps through the bottom of the pie and sizzles lightly against the clay pot. I think my lord may risk stumbling into the fire should he lean o'er it any further. I would laugh should it not discredit my lord. True it is a Ranger's fealty is first given to the Dúnadan but then in a close second to his belly.

My lord knocks the bowl of his pipe against his palm to dislodge the ash.

"Aye, well," Halbarad goes on after tossing the spoon to the table and reseating himself. "'Twas not all for a loss. We made good time to Amon Sûl and there found the others waiting for us.

My lord wraps his pipe in its soft pouch. "Hold a moment, I wish the lady to join us," he says and Halbarad's head turns upon him with a curious, startled look.

Halbarad turns his gaze away, and then pulls his feet beneath him and sits the straighter upon his bench as were it not so comfortable a seat as it was afore.

"I have the time now, my lord," I say to my lord's querying look, for the bottoms of the pies are not quite the brown I wish, and they have yet to turn a golden crisp about their edges.

My lord nods to the table and I follow him there, his kin's eyes following me all the while. He looks to my lord but seems not to find that for which he searches.

"What is it you learned on Weathertop?" my lord asks as he sits and Halbarad clears his throat.

"You asked after these men that come from the south. It is true, as we heard. They make their way up the Old South Road. They are not of our folk, though atimes fall in with them as they flee across the Wild."

My lord makes a soft sound, whether of agreement or worry, I know not, but Halbarad pauses to lay aside his pipe.

"They have made their way to Bree," he says, with a quick glance first upon me.

"Indeed?" My lord's look comes sharply upon his kinsman.

"Aye, Mathil has seen them there."

"What does he say of them?"

"They have the look of no House of Man that we know," says Halbarad. "Ill-favored, grey-skinned, and small and crabbed of build. Their eyes are strange, in a way no man can quite say."

"In Bree, you said."

"Aye," Halbarad says and my lord shakes his head, tension drawing the bow of his shoulders tight.

My lord scrapes at his bearded cheek, his gaze grim. "What do you make of this, lady?"

I bite at my lip, well aware Halbarad's brow has lowered darkly. I know not what to make of his ill-will, but it was plain upon his face, though quickly he smooths it away. Mayhap he does not care for this, that my lord would turn to me for my thoughts.

"I know not, my lord," I say. "They are not of Dunland?"

Halbarad shakes his head. "No, that much we know."

"Then have we no new enemy to the south?" I ask, though, even now I wonder at the truth. "Our folk tell tales of death and cruel use that follow the rumor of strange folk passing the lonely settlements along the Old South Road. I know not how much to credit it, but I have heard such tales more than once since the turn of the season."

Halbarad shrugs, and makes it clear the possibility I raise has been well-discussed ere today. "It matters little. Even should we have such an enemy, we have not the men to send to discover it."

"Ah!"

My lord's voice startles us into silence, and we stare at him. He rubs roughly at his face and then launches himself from his chair, his hands coming down upon the rests with such force the heavy wood skitters back upon the stones.

He has turned his back upon us and paces along the wall, his face greatly troubled. It seems Halbarad and I dare not speak and even the fire seems to burn the more quietly for all our attention is turned to our lord. At length, he halts and sighs, his shoulders sagging.

"Alas!" he says and, returning to his chair, drops to a seat and rubs at his brow. "I have neither the skill nor the foresight to choose well among such evils, they seem of equal measure in all parts."

I know not what to do, but it seems Halbarad is the more familiar with these moods that take my lord. He merely waits, remaining silent but thoughtful, and so I follow his example.

"Aye, Halbarad," my lord says softly and leaves off worrying at his brow. "The choice is not yet put to us, though I fear it is not far off. Aye, we can spare no men to travel south. My heart tells me the Angle is in little danger from them, at least not today or even upon the morrow. We are too many and they too few. I fear more for our watch about the land of the Halflings and the Dúnedain in the scattered homesteads and encampments. And yet, we can do little but what we have done afore, remain watchful and encourage our folk to seek safety in greater numbers."

"Aye," agrees Halbarad and the sudden sound of sizzling fat and the smell upon the air reminds me I should check our meal.

"Elesinda," I call and rise, and the girl answers from deep within the pantry where she, with much haste, takes over the making of the sweets that shall end our meal where I had earlier left off.

"Aye, my lady, I come."

In but a few moments we have set the table with large bowls of greens, basil, and wild onions, a good hearty bread, ale, and the savory pies. There Elesinda joins us and we eat at first in silence, pulling apart the pastry and breathing deep of its steam. Halbarad pours the ale into our cups and, soon, we speak companionably, for he seems determined to alter his lord's mood.

Elesinda, with much coaxing, tells of her father's working of the Angle's fields, for he has bartered for yet another furlong with the young bull he trained these past two years. The tale brings smiles to my lord's face, for, though shy of meeting his gaze, she tells it well. The young ox had been of such a temperamental and sullen character he had turned their household upon its head for the attempt to make it take the yoke.

My lord laughs low. _"It is a good thy brother has a head of iron, for surely that blow rung it as a bell._"

"_Aye, my lord,"_ says Elesinda and drops her eyes. "_So my mother says. He takes his yoke less willing than ox-calf._"

"_Ah, thou hast made good use of thy practice._" A pleased smile lights my lord's face. "Your voicing is coming along well."

"_My thanks to thee, my lord."_ She colors and beams into her empty bowl, and then risks a quick glance his way. "Your Ranger, Gelir, has been most attentive and helps me with it."

"Indeed? I am sure he has been."

Halbarad shakes his head wearily. _"Could only I convince him to attend to his other duties as regularly_."

At this, my lord laughs, and our conversation ends, for it seems Elesinda, knows enough of the words of the elves to follow his comment. Though she clearly holds a contrary opinion, she is much too shy of expressing it to go on.

It is not until Halbarad pushes his bowl away, looking much satisfied, and my lord idly breaks off pieces of bread to go with his ale do I dismiss Elesinda again to the pantry to finish her tasks. Here we sit in comfort and the mild pleasure of, mayhap, a little too much ale. Halbarad eyes the last of the pies remaining between himself and my lord. I think he calculates the risk of snatching it from under my lord's watchful eye. And indeed, he waits until my lord's hands are occupied with his cup ere he pounces upon it.

"Ah!" my lord exclaims, his voice echoing in his cup, to which Halbarad only grins and stuffs a great piece of the savory pie into his mouth. The sour look my lord turns upon him serves to make his kinsman chuckle.

"Have I ever told you, Aragorn, of when first I met your lady?' Halbarad asks around his mouthful of the pie.

"No, you have not." My lord frowns but settles again to his ale and bread.

"It was in her father's house, nigh on," here Halbarad halts as were he adding up the years. "How long ago was it, my lady? Do you recall?"

I am clearing the table from where I sit next to my lord. I pause and then reach for Elesinda's bowl to stack it with the others.

"It was the spring of the great ice-storm. You came to supper just afore." My sister may have received many visitors of her own, but my aunt and I received few, and it took little thought then to fix the time of Halbarad's company.

"Aye, 'twas a dozen years or more, then," Halbarad says and then turns to my lord. "Her father had spoken so highly of her and her sister I could not resist the invitation." He breaks off a corner of the pastry and does all but taunt my lord with it, waving it in his view as he speaks.

My lord's look is fond, remembering, I think, my father's stories. My father was never one to leave the account of a tale unembellished.

"But, I confess it," Halbarad goes on. "'Twas the meal I remember best. My lady, what was it you served that night?" He pops the piece of pastry in his mouth.

But I rise and answer not and must seem to be much occupied with the tray and bowls. True, my sister and I had spent much of the day preparing for the Ranger's visit, but, of a sudden, I wish not to hear what he recalls of it.

"Aye, she has prepared it since," Halbarad says. "I believe it was a hen with a sauce of onions and plums. I doubt not it spent the day simmering over their hearth, it was so tender."

"I take it was sweet to the taste," says my lord, a smile coming upon his face.

"Aye," Halbarad says and waves away his kin's teasing. "And had much the flavor of pungent spice to it."

"And stuck so in your thoughts you ever wished to taste of it again?"

Halbarad's attention is on the pastry, breaking it apart so he might savor the next piece. He shrugs, smiling. "Aye, why do you think I had her in mind for the choosing of your lady? What else would I have had in mind?"

Halbarad's voice is at first light, as were he speaking in sport only, but then he falls still of a sudden and, looking up, a flash of dismay darkens his features. My lord rises, but I know not what response he makes, for I have fled to the buttery hard upon his kinsman's words and let the door fall closed behind me.

My face is hot and my heart beats hard enough to muddle my thoughts. I clutch at the pitcher I had grabbed upon in my flight from the hall, but my feet seem unable to take me any further. Glad I am Elesinda works in the pantry, for greatly wroth am I and, at first, know not why.

Aye, I feel great pride those I feed take their enjoyment of it. For truly it is said, 'tis a bitter bread baked without care that may feed a man's belly but fill only part a man's hunger. But, still, I find deep offense in Halbarad's jest. Am I no more than that, a woman who has just enough wit to feed her household's bellies well, but not so much to recommend her as equal to her lord's hunger he share the duties of his House? And it is at this thought that my breath catches and my heart pains me.

The door to the buttery opens. I know it for the light flooding the small room and the soft footsteps of the man whose shadow I see thrown across the shelves and counter.

"Lady?"

'Tis my lord, and his voice is gentle. I think a hand comes to brush upon my arm, but I step aside to frustrate his reach.

I do not speak of it. Instead, I thrust the pitcher below the barrel of ale and sharply twist at the tap.

"Lady, 'twas an ill-considered -"

"My lord," I say, and my voice is loud enough he halts. "Should you wish more of the pies, you may find them in the clay pot." For I had left them there, setting them aside the hearth to keep warm.

"I know well where they are, lady," says he, but I go on as had he not spoken.

"I prepared enough for tonight and for the morrow. Should you rise early enough, you may yet steal your kin's portion from him since he had the better of you tonight." The ale pours into the bottom of the pitcher, a hollow sound that fills the small room.

I think my lord sighs, for such is the slight noise behind me. The door closes, and it seems my lord is gone, but then, from the slip of leather upon the floor and the creak of the wood, I know he rests against the frame in the dim light. He has no intent of leaving and instead makes himself comfortable.

"In truth, their taste is very pleasing," says he.

"I am glad you find it so. They were of my aunt's devising. She it was who taught me their making."

"A good woman, your aunt."

Aye, that she was. I could certainly use her ear and her gentle humor at this moment. The pitcher has a goodly portion of ale in it and aught more I might add should only go to waste. I twist the tap closed.

"Forgive me, my lord, but you never knew her."

"No, but I know the woman she once raised."

At that, I have naught else to do but turn to face my lord and so I do, the pitcher clutched against my breast.

"Oh!" the word comes sharply from my left, for Elesinda has burst in from the pantry, thinking the buttery empty.

In her hand she carries a shallow bowl of sweet pastries baked of ground hazelnuts, much butter and a little flour. Fanciful in shape, they were made to mock hedgehogs with their quills of chopped nuts and eyes of dried berries. I thought they would make Halbarad laugh with their whimsy, and so Elesinda and I had prepared them in hopes of welcoming him home. Now I wish I had not.

She drops a quick reverence. "Your pardon, my lord, my lady."

I wonder at what she thinks she has interrupted, for her face turns a red easily seen even in the dim light of the buttery.

My lord lifts himself from the wall and opens the door for her, and she strides swiftly to the hall.

"Come," he says. "Let me." He lifts the pitcher from my hands.

And though his glance is gentle upon me, he makes it clear he expects me to return to the hall. For he holds the door open with his heel and refuses to move until I have preceded him through it.

~oOo~


	28. Chapter 27

~ Chapter 27 ~

_The Men and Dwarves were mostly talking of distant events and telling tales of a kind that was becoming only too familiar. There was trouble away in the South, and it seemed that the Men who had come up the Greenway were on the move, looking for lands where they could find some peace. The Bree-folk were sympathetic, but plainly not very ready to take a large number of strangers into their little land. _

FOTR: At the Sign of the Prancing Pony

~oOo~

_~ TA 3009, 24th day of Yavannië: The Angle's hallmoot to occur no less than once per year, at the end of harvest, though may be called by the House of Isildur at need or the Angle's Council should the majority of vote support it. There the lord of the House of Isildur or his representative shall preside over the hallmoot and his judgments take precedence as law, insofar as it not conflict with the Angle's charter as determined by the jury of nine men selected by the pledgeholders. There the Head of the Angle's Council is to call for pledges, for the hearing of grievances, and the claims of minor breaches of our lord's law. The hearing of grievous breach of our lord's law to be heard by the Council. Sentences for all breaches of our lord's law, both grievous and minor, to be proclaimed by the House of Isildur after consultation with the jury. _

~oOo~

My lord sits in the dappled and shifting shade where the limbs of the old oak spread out above the stone wall. There Halbarad has carried his chair and the wind stirs the leaves to dancing above his head as he sits and looks out upon the folk of the Angle. Crows and rooks raise their harsh cries o'er the stubble of the fields where we set the beasts of the Angle to graze. My lord has asked me to stand with him and so I do, at the back corner of his chair where his steward would be placed had he one. There I listen to the cawing echo deep against the line of the forest. Let the black-winged birds cock their glittering eyes to the ground and peck at the furrows. No longer do the children and dogs chase them away. We leave off our long battle and surrender the fields to them, for we have already carried off the greater prize. Sacks and bushels of grain stuff our granaries full to the bursting and we can afford to relax our vigil against them.

Afore us, the men and women gather upon the grass of the gentle rise, for today, in the lull between the harvest of grain and the mowing of the great hayfields, is the day of hallmoot. Here claimant and petitioner stand afore their lord and peers to speak what cause of grievance they may claim or hear what needs must have response. The Angle's chosen jury of nine men stands beneath the spread of branches creaking above their heads. Ploughman and craftsman and cotter they are, and they listen as the butcher raises his voice. Beside them stands my lord's kin and captain of his Rangers. He stands at attention, his hand resting lightly upon the handle of his knife. He alone of those gathered here may go armed and his eyes are ever vigilant.

"We call first for the complaints against the harvest and holdings," Elder Tanaes calls, having limped to the small bit of my lord's lawn free of folk. He beats the butt of his great carved staff upon the ground. "Who shall be first?"

"I!" calls out Master Herdir and he makes his way through the men. At the man's nod, he bows first to Tanaes, then the jury and lastly to our lord.

"I, Herdir, son of Brandir, reeve to our lord do bring claim of shirking his day-work to Adleg. I present that Adleg, son of Aeg, without just claim of illness or release by our lord or his kin, did knowingly and willfully withhold three days-work of binding the grain and threshing."

"Very well, where is he?" asks the butcher, leaning upon his staff and peering into the crowd. The people look one to another, but in all the milling about, I cannot see the young man of whom they speak even should he stand forward. "Who is the holder of his pledge?"

"I am," comes a high, light voice at odds with hands and shoulders made broad and square for the grinding of grain and kneading of dough. He, the baker, too examines the crowd and then, of a sudden, waves o'er their heads. "Come on, lad," he calls. "No use for it but to stand forward and have it out."

With that, a grim-faced youth makes his way to the open lawn between the folk of the Angle and its jury. The shade of the oak falls darkly upon pale cheeks barely touched by whiskers and bones barely graced by flesh and sinew. He plucks at the hem of his tunic, but his gaze is steadfast and all but defiant. Behind him have come a man and woman and I know them for the lad's parents, silent and stern in their years.

"Have you aught to say in defense to the charge?" Elder Tanaes asks, and the lad shakes his head vigorously.

"Naught at all?" he prompts, but the lad's gaze falls fixed upon the ground and, though the sinews of his cheeks are drawn tight, he does not speak.

"Should you not speak on your own behalf, or find one who will do so in your stead, the jury will have no choice but to find you derelict of your pledge."

The men of the jury frown at the youth, but I know not whether it be from vexation at his silence or rebuke for his transgression. I clutch at the post of my lord's chair, for I think I know why this young lad may have failed of the harvest and am reluctant to call him unfaithful. Sure I am my lord feels the pull of my grip upon his chair, but he raises his hand as were he to still both the jury's unquiet as well as my own.

"Adleg, is it?"

"Aye, my lord," the lad says and dips his head, fingers to his brow.

"Were you not upon the fields at the first of the harvest?" he asks, frowning mildly at the youth. "Do I not recall you there?"

"Aye, my lord," he says. "I was there."

"And how is it you failed to return?"

"Should it please you, my lord, 'twas my grandsire, he who had fallen and broken his foot but the first day of the harvest. There were none who could watch o'er him."

My lord scrapes at his beard lightly, as were he considering the lad's words.

"None but you?" he finally goes on. "How was this decided?"

"In truth, my lord, 'twas I who decided. My parents," he adds, nodding to the couple, "commanded me to go with them to the harvest."

"But you thought better of it?" My lord's hand stills.

"Aye, my lord."

"And did not think to plead just cause for your absence?"

This seems to give the youth pause, for he glances at Master Herdir first ere speaking. "No, my lord."

"And you," my lord says, directing his words to the man standing silently behind the youth, "thought him able to make this decision unaided?"

He clears his throat ere responding but still his voice his gruff. "Aye, my lord, he would hear none of us and insisted he was man enough to bear the penalty."

The youth's jaw juts forward and he stands with shoulders broadly squared as were he preparing to hold still under some great blow. At first, I know not what to make of my lord's silence, but then the swift rise of his hand to his lips tells my lord's mind. He finds mirth, I think, in the youth's prickly and unnecessarily tried honor.

"Elder Landir," my lord asks without turning his gaze from the young man. "What is the penalty for shirking day-work?"

Among the jury a lean man with a face like pale, tanned leather tugs upon his ear and muses, "That the man's house forfeit a half-bushel for every day withheld, my lord."

"So," my lord says, fixing the youth with a deceptively mild look. "And from whose portion shall it be measured, among those of your house?"

The youth looks from lord to jury to butcher and finds little quarter. Eyes that were defiant seem to find little upon which to rest and the color of a rose blooms upon his cheek.

"I would have none go hungry for my fault," he says.

"Think you so? Then you would be most like be quite ill, were you not dead ere the punishment had run its course. Should you wish even that upon your mother? Your father? To eat while you hunger and fall ill afore them?"

The youth's eyes fall and the blush upon his cheek deepens.

"And so, you see," my lord says, his voice growing low. "Not you alone shall bear the consequence, no matter that you were man enough to make the decision without heeding their counsel."

My lord goes on, "An you would have neither shared burden of the penalty nor burden alone, what penalty would you have? For what might you hope?"

The young man shifts upon his feet, his face twisted in a wry grimace. "With your leave, my lord, I would hope you would not make the decision without first heeding others' counsel."

For a moment the crowd and the leaves overhead are still, as were both folk and wind holding their breath. But then it breaks, for my lord throws back his head and laughs.

"Well answered!" he cries. "Well, then, what say you, men of the jury? What penalty for this man of the Angle who thought not to plead mercy?"

Heads bow and shoulders turn in to the soft speech of the men of the jury. Then, it seems they are done, for they face my lord with their laughter barely suppressed in their eyes and Elder Landir speaks again.

"My lord, should you choose to swear oath to the lad's character as being more of pride than sloth, the jury may be convinced to fine him his missed days-work and no more."

"I so swear and pronounce the sentence just," my lord says promptly and, I think, the jury is satisfied, for they smile and chuckle among themselves.

"Aye, then," says the butcher. "Hear now your penalty, Adleg son of Aeg. The folk of the Angle have found you guilty of willful pride and misjudgment of your lord's mercy and your people's custom. You shall owe them your shirked days-work, to be exacted upon the next three days of rest."

"And be you glad of it, lad," he goes on as the youth bows, "for you could have been dealt with more harshly."

I think, from the twinkle in his father's eye when he receives him, his elders held more faith in the justice of the Angle then had their son.

"And who shall be next?" asks the butcher and a grizzled ploughman stands forth and raises his hand. "Very well, then, speak your complaint."

"Aye," the man says and nods jerkily. His face is a study of flushed righteousness. "I, Godref son of Gorn, bring complaint against Hammand, that he did willfully and knowingly extend his ploughing into my furlong."

"I never did!" comes the cry and soon they are at it.

So the morning wears on. Through much of it, my lord remains silent, lending the weight of his authority to the butcher and the jury through the mere vigilance of his House. At first, I attended sharply, for, at this uncommon view of the Angle, I marvel at so many faces, light and dark, turned with one mind. But as the sun rises, the heat gathers, my belly empties, and my mind turns the more oft to the meats I have yet to prepare and bread I have yet to slice for my lord's noon meal.

"And now we come to the holding and breaking of vows. Let us now view the pledge!" Elder Tanaes calls when the last grievance is heard and judged. "Who here shall claim as right and responsibility the holding of swearing of oaths and the offering of pledge of good conduct, or the holding of accounts when that should fail?"

"Aye!" and "I shall!" I hear shouted by voices in the crowd.

"Then call you, chiefs of the pledge who holds the oaths of your men!"

The chiefs call out their names. "Tundril, ploughman!" "Lorn, fuller!" and more I hear and the people move as many grains of dry river-sand should you try to cup them in your hand. Soon, the men stand in groups of no more than a dozen at a time with the women of their families in a silent ring upon the slope of grass.

"Have you those unclaimed who are now of age?" asks Elder Tanaes and he is answered in scattered calls of names and acceptance of pledges across the croft as men bring their young sons to stand beside them.

Here and there, as well, I see the wary or worried eye laid upon the men of the wanderers. Only but a few each year have been claimed among them, so that nigh to all families are seen as newcomer and not been claimed. I bite upon my lip to quell the sight of my misgivings. A man and his family not claimed upon the Angle has few rights and none to speak for him afore the Council. Nor can they hold land. More years of this and soon their status will take an air of permanence we will have little chance of altering. Here our plans come to fruition, the mistress and I, or we shall fail and it will be many years more ere we make the attempt again.

"Aye, and aye. And those of you who have now come to the Angle," Elder Tanaes says to those men hanging silently upon the fringe. "Have you any shall accept the claim of your pledge?

Mistress Pelara has been busy among the women of the wanderers, selecting her lieutenants, filling their ears and sending them forth. She has forged alliances from the raw material of our folk's great need for more hands to bear the load of the Angle's work, throwing those willing to do the work together to achieve it, and then celebrating with much of her ale after. And so not near all, but most as can be hoped now step forward. A mutter arises from the crowd as a rumbling of stone.

Could I credit it, Elder Tanaes looks to be a little startled. I am sure he expected to be called upon to explain the claiming of the pledge as he has in years past, for many of the wanderers come from holdings no larger than what a man and his family may work alone. There they hold each other accountable to the Lord's laws and their own customs. I almost feel pity for the butcher. He surely had worked his review of the custom into what he thought were fitting words, and now there shall be no need for them.

"Aye," I hear and one of the men of the wanderers raises his hand. "We here," he says nodding to the others, "know of the pledge and its claiming and are agreed to it."

"You speak for them?" the butcher asks.

"Nay, I hold no man to account," he says and at this, Elder Tanaes halts, unsure how to proceed. He has not one man to address and confirm their willingness, but now many. He glances to the men of the jury where they gather beneath the arms of the oak tree, but they know naught more than he.

Pursing his lips and considering the folk afore him, the Elder nods of a sudden and calls out, "Aye, then, each will speak for his own understanding by his deeds." He gestures to the crowd with his staff. "Should you find yourself a man willing to claim your pledge we shall accept it."

Men sift through the groups of chiefs of the pledge and oathmen, coming to stand one or two beside their new brethren. Aye, the men of the Angle shall no doubt speak of it for days. Heads crane upon necks and voices call out, but so slow had been the work, there is no protest, though I would not swear to their thoughts being of one accord.

Some go with more eagerness and are there accepted. Some go with reluctance, and I know not their welcome. Others watch them go and seem not inclined to look upon it with much favor. Indeed, the largest group of wandering folk of the clans of the northern hills cluster about a tall man with a dark ruddy-brown skin and silvering hair he wears in loose twists pulled back from his face. He is new to the Angle, and I know him not, but he looks on with his arms crossed upon his breast, neither scowling nor smiling. My lord's head turns my way and I have the briefest of glimpses of sharp eyes. I had not thought my breath would be quite so loud in its releasing.

A shout breaks out o'er the muttering of the folk. For a knot of men roils amidst the crowd. A man breaks from his fellows only to turn and face his pursuer. The tide of men ebbs from about them, jostling with each other to form a writhing ring about them. There they shout and shove at each other.

_Ai! _'Tis Ploughman Gworon, on whom Mistress Pelara expended much effort. I had had little faith in our efforts and my heart sunk to see it confirmed.

My lord springs from his seat and stands tall upon the open grass, with Halbarad not far behind. The Ranger's hand has found its way to his knife and seems about to draw, but my lord forestalls him with a hand across his breast.

Elder Tanaes beats upon the ground with his staff in great clouts. "Silence! Stop you, now!"

But it is to little effect, for Gworon is set upon and all I can see is the thrashing of fists and kicking of booted feet. The scuff of shoving and shouting echoes back upon the folk from the stone fence and pasture so naught can be heard but a confusion of raised voices.

Above it all comes my lord's clear command as he strides alone across the greensward. "You there, chiefs of the pledge!" my lord shouts. "Hold your men fast!"

Men stride swiftly to the melee from all points about the toft. Elder, ploughman, juryman, and craftsmen alike, their faces grim, descend upon the fight. They ward away those flung aside from the center with outstretched hands and soon the brawl is submerged beneath their weight.

"Hold there!" "Grab him."

Soon they have them and draw them down through the crowd, the folk parting afore them as the long grasses upon the meadow. My lord speaks to his kin, their heads inclined. Low his voice comes to me, though I know not what he says. About him, men of the jury drift back to their place, resettling their tunics about them and picking up caps.

My lord does not answer my gaze nor speak to me when he returns to his great chair. He seats himself and there he rests his chin up on his hand, his elbow propped upon the arm of his chair. The House has kept the peace and 'tis the Angle that will judge the wrongs committed afore it.

Heaving for breath, Gworon is fair flung to the open toft, dragged there from the crowd by many hands. And there, beside him, to my dismay, is also cast Sereg. Both are much battered and blood trickles from Sereg's nose upon his lip. He sniffs and wipes at it.

At the sight of the men, a cry arises from the folk gathered upon my lord's toft.

_Ai!_ It seems the more I do upon Sereg's behalf, the worse his lot. Indeed, through no fault of his own we could discover, the Mistress had been hard pressed to find a man of the Angle willing to give him the shelter of his accepted pledge.

"A plague on you Southrons and Dunlanders!" I hear shouted from the crowd, though know not from where.

"I'd have beat ye, too, would it not taint my hands!'

"Silence!" my lord shouts from where he sits and then returns to worrying at the hairs beneath his lip.

All then is still, but for Master Bachor, who wends his way swiftly through his oathmen. They part afore him to let him pass. There he stops aside a man I know, Master Fimon, half-virgater and chief of his own pledges, he whose land Bachor intended for the granaries. Bachor pulls upon his shoulder, so he may speak low to the man, nodding to the toft atimes. I think his man unwilling, for Fimon shakes his head and his mouth forms a refusal. But Master Bachor is not one to be denied so easily. Turning his back to where I stand with my lord and the jury so his face is hidden, he speaks the more urgently, atimes squeezing his man's shoulder in emphasis.

And then I must look away, for Elder Tanaes has finished with his consultation with the jury and comes back to his spot upon my lord's toft. He now speaks.

"Gworon, son of Iaewon, and Sereg, son of Seregil, the folk of the Angle have found you guilty of the charge of minor breach of your lord's peace."

"How do you give us no chance of defense?" comes bursting from Gworon.

The butcher leans upon his staff and gives the man a weary look. "What defense would you make, Master Gworon, eh? You committed your offense in full sight of all the folk of the Angle, and your lord had to command hands laid upon you to stop. You would be hard put to find any to speak for you."

The man lets loose an angry huff of breath. "'Tis no secret why none would come forward. There would be plenty to speak for me were it not for the Lady and her –"

"Have a care, Gworon," says Elder Tanaes, "I would say no further were I you."

Gworon shakes his head, raising his eyes to the heavens as were he to find more justice there than afore the Angle's jury. "'Twas not I who struck the first blow," he says at length, though he has lost none of his mutinous look.

"Mayhap you had better stop the more swiftly with your blows when your lord calls for it, then, and we will put more weight to it next time," says Tanaes.

At this, Elder Tanaes shifts his weight and takes a labored step so he might address Master Sereg.

The man has remained silent, standing alone and nigh unremarked with his back to the Angle's folk. He takes in short, shallow breaths and the muscles of his cheek twitch as he stares at the grass afore the jury. I must wonder at the state of his ribs. For the last Gworon was free he had been bringing his boot down on a form I could not see.

"Aye, well, Master Sereg, it seems I shall call for what defense you might make. Have you any?"

With a quick glance upon the Elder, Master Sereg clenches his jaw, shaking his head. "I have naught," he says.

So, he will not speak, and no doubt does not think his words would mean much should he attempt to make excuse. Is there naught can be done? He has good enough cause to lighten the burden of his sentencing.

Quick my lord's hand comes upon my wrist, for I have stepped forward.

"_No,_" says he, his voice low and scarce heard.

It is then I look full upon Master Sereg. Though his face does not betray his thoughts, his eyes are fixed upon me from beneath lowered lids. There they glint with a sharp light until he releases me.

_Ai!_ 'Tis with great effort I ease the sinews of my face, for they had tightened as had I expected a blow. Aye, I have been purposefully blind. I had known the man averse but had not thought him so bitter. I should have seen it and can only be grateful my lord was the more cautious.

"Very well," says Elder Tanaes. "My lord, your jury gives recommendation of one full day each in the digging and clearing of the cesspits."

My lord does not look upon me and eases his hand back to rest upon his chair as had naught happened. "I pronounce it so," he says.

With this Elder Tanaes considers Sereg for a long moment. "Gworon I can refer to Elder Lorn to secure the fulfilment of his sentence, but we have none to hold you to an oath you have not made. What have you of value you can give the Council in bond?"

Sereg rubs at his arm, his shoulders hunched as he would make himself small. "I have naught of value but the grain I have labored to grow, Elder."

"You need not take it. I will hold him to his penalty."

At that, Master Fimon walks from the edge of the open toft. When he had made his way through the crowd I know not, but all turn to him as he comes forward and strides between Master Tanaes and the jury. He has removed his cap to appear afore the jury bare-headed to there give respect, leaving a line of light and tan upon his high brow stark against his dark hair.

"I would allow it. Indeed, I would prefer it, but we have no custom that gives you the right," says the butcher.

I think none on my lord's toft so stunned as Master Sereg himself, for he stares at the pledge-holder coming upon him through a narrowed gaze.

Master Fimon, himself, seems unaffected. He steps to Sereg's side, clutching his cap in both hands afore him, and there turns to the jury. "Should he give me his oath, I will be his pledge-holder. And I will hold him to it."

"What say you the jury?" Tanaes calls.

There the jury consults below the spreading arms of the great oak. I see much of shrugging and pensive looks, but naught of objection.

At last, Elder Landir steps out from beneath the shade of the oak. "We have not much to guide us, but it does not contradict either custom or charter. Should both parties be willing, we say 'aye.'" says Elder Landir after some moments

"What say you then, Master Sereg?" asks Elder Tanaes.

With a glance to the crowd where Master Bachor stands, his arms crossed upon his breast surveying the events as they unfold, Sereg licks his lips and considers.

I do not envy the man. I cannot account for Master Bachor's purpose. I have naught on which to bend my thoughts to make sense of them.

"Aye, I will take the oath, should Master Fimon accept it."

"Very well, I yield you to your pledgeholders and we shall consider this matter done," declares Master Tanaes, raising his voice so all in the crowd might hear him.

The men make their way through our folk, Master Fimon's hand upon Sereg's back, ushering him away. And so, it is done, and I know not what to think.

At the prick of hair upon my neck, I know eyes are upon me. From o'er the heads of his oathmen, Master Bachor stares pointedly at me. His features unbroken by his thoughts, he nods slowly, his eyes not leaving mine now my regard is upon him. And then he turns aside to speak to Master Fimon, who is now upon him, and it seems that I am forgot.

"Hear you now, then, the claiming of the pledge!" Elder Tanaes begins, shifting his weight upon his good leg and working his breast as were they great bellows. "Be you now sworn to the laws of our Lord and the custom of the Angle. Hold the land, you shall! Work the land, you shall! Defend its folk, you shall! And should any among you fail, those with whom claim your pledge shall hold you to the Angle's justice or be forfeit themselves. Do you so swear?"

"Aye!" comes a great shout from the men and in their echo comes a thin scattering of cheers.

"Then shall you accept the pledge in good faith, my lord?" the butcher cries, overriding the noise.

"Aye, l do," my lord says, rising to stand tall and gaze upon his people. "I, Aragorn son of Arathorn, accept your pledge and shall uphold your rights and hold you to your responsibilities as ever have my fathers, the Lords of the Dúnedain, and the Kings of Arnor."

Aye, well, that is done. Even my lord smiles at the cheers that follow, scattered though they may be. They are free men and hold one and another accountable. And have the need as not afore.

"I have claim!" I hear spoken low, and I collect my thoughts as my lord reseats himself to find a man easing his way through the ranks of his fellows. I know him little, for he is new come to the Angle from the south this past six months.

"Come you forward, then. We hear now the claims against all other oaths," Elder Tanaes says and wipes at his brow with his sleeve. It is not so much that it is hard work, but his ruddy face comes to glow beneath the strength of the sun. I think he, too, hopes the hallmoot shall draw soon to a close.

Not one, but two now stand upon the small bit of greensward. Husband and wife, they are. Her small, neat hands lie clasped upon her skirts.

"And what have you to claim?"

With a quick look to his wife, who, it seems, will not return his gaze, it is the man who speaks. "I stand afore the jury and plead with them to allow me the right of the _seidiad._"

The word sets the crowd to murmuring and I hear its soft sounds echoed on many lips. I cannot recall a time when this right was claimed ere now, and I think it is the same for many of the folk of the Angle.

"Quiet now!" the butcher cries and the people slowly come to stillness. "Only the Lord of the Dúnedain can hear your plea," says he to the man. "The oaths of his people are the Lord's to enforce or to deem broken. It is of him you must beg the right."

"My lord, will you not hear me?"

My lord has fallen very still. Indeed, I would think his face has paled for the starkness of his eyes and beard against his skin. He clears his throat ere he speaks and even still it seems his voice tightened by his discomfort. "What is your basis for the claim?"

"My lord, should it please you," says he and dips his head, "my wife and I, we agreed to a marriage should it provide us with children. Such was our contract, made in cool thought and with terms agreed aforehand."

My lord shifts in his chair, drawing in his long legs. His look is grim. "The custom of our people allows this but rarely, and we must consider in all deliberation what we do here. Have you complaint of her?"

"I wish her no ill, my lord," the man says. "But such were the chances to which we agreed."

"And have you no other cause to remain as husband and wife? No other comfort you may take?"

Slow and hesitant is the response, but it seems they are of accord. His answer is "no," and she does not counter him. I wonder then, should this breaking be of her will or should she be merely weary of contesting it.

"Your husband requests this thing, what of you?"

She startles, for it seems she has been deaf to her husband's words. In their stead, she stares at me and with the soft light in her eyes am I held captive.

"'Tis not my right to claim, my lord," says she and her glance flickers to my lord. True it is, but such is the bitterness in that soft voice it gives my lord pause.

"Have you aught to complain of him?" he then asks.

I would have thought him satisfied at the shaking of her head, but she now looks upon the grass of the lawn beneath her feet and she speaks no word in answer. Though she does not move, she seems to shrink back from my lord's gaze, for his eyes sharpen upon her and his hands clench upon themselves.

In the long moment that my lord yet regards her, there is silence, but for the whispering of the leaves of the oak tree as they shift above us and the muttering of its branches. I think, mayhap, he knows not how to proceed, for he does not speak. Instead, he studies the woman afore him, unnerved by her silence. No matter she cannot hold the oath, still she has the right of protest, but will not take it.

"Lady?" I hear and find that I have stepped to my lord's chair and laid my hand upon him.

Hard upon the fence to the well-garth stands Mistress Pelara. Having conferred with Mistress Nesta beside her, she shakes her head a little when I look upon her, but then twists her mouth as were she to convey that which she might not know.

My lord twists about and pulls me near by my wrist so that he may speak more closely.

"What know you of this, lady?"

"Little, my lord, we know of no fear she may have of him," I say low in his ear, my face turned from the company about us. "But I cannot say for certain. Had he taken the oath ere now, we would know more. But he has not. No chief of the pledge has the claim to hold her husband to her rights or could speak for her should she not speak for herself. Should he set her aside, she will have naught. She is not skilled. Their kin are dead or remained south. Unless some other house take her in, she has little means of provision and no defense. Should she stay, I know not her husband's mood and the reason for her silence."

He considers this, returning to looking upon the couple, his thumb playing upon my wrist.

"I have little liking for this, lady, in all parts," he says, shaking his head. "Should she have reason to fear him I would not abandon her to him. Yet, should I break their vow for somewhat less, with this as their example, neither would I wish my folk begin to take their vows so lightly that they might break them for no reason but they tire of them or matters do not unfold as they would wish. Had I more certainty of what occurs between them I would know how to act, but I have none. What do you counsel?"

"My lord," say I and fall silent. It seems I have little answer for him. How long had they considered what must be done and how long had they waited until my lord could attend to their petition? "Could they not wait a little more, my lord?"

My lord's hand tightens upon me sharply and he draws away to see my face. "Have you plans, lady?"

I glance to Mistress Pelara, who watches us intently, as do all. "Mayhap, my lord," I say, only to find he has followed my gaze and now considers Mistress Pelara in my place. "Should you secure her safety, my lord, we could do the rest."

With one last squeeze, he releases me, and I go to stand behind my lord's chair again.

"Thus I decree it," my lord says and turns his gaze upon the man. "It is not our custom to enter oaths of marriage lightly, nor mine to permit their breaking until it is considered in its full."

The husband takes breath as he might speak, but my lord declares, "You have had your time to come to a decision, I will have mine."

"For your good and the good of the Angle, I decree one year of contemplation, much as that you took ere you bound yourselves together. Even should my House grant your petition at its end, I will not break the vow of care you gave. She may yet not be your wife, but she remains of your kin and her care remains yours, for she forsook all others to cleave to you and that cannot be undone. Should your petition be granted, in fine you are to find house sufficient for her needs and to pay to the woman who once was your wife the sum of a dozen bushels of yield from your holdings and upkeep of the house you give her. But this I further decree, regardless of your petition: you shall take the pledge, and you shall do it now.

"Tanaes," he calls and the butcher jerks to standing from where he had been leaning back against the stone fence in the shade.

"Aye, my lord?"

"Will you take this man's pledge and hold him to our laws and customs?"

"Indeed I shall, my lord," Tanaes replies and, limping upon his leg stiffened by inactivity, makes his way to the greensward where the couple awaits.

"How say the jury?" calls my lord.

The jury murmurs among themselves, their heads turned away. I hear naught of what they say and can see little in their faces for the deep shade of the oak. They take their time, for I think they must search deeply among their memories.

"My lord," Elder Landir says when they finally part. "We have no example to guide us but acknowledge the right and are willing to leave the rest to your wishes."

"It is done, then," says my lord. He thrusts himself to standing. "Hear this, people of the Angle. She and any who are sundered from their kin are yet under my care. Should ill befall them, I care not whose hands have caused them pain, I will not suffer it! Do not think them without defense. Neither I, nor any of my House, will take it lightly."

At this the folk take to murmuring. They shift about as the couple, husband and wife in name only, part afore them.

"Lady," my lord says.

He has turned and looks to me, so I might stand beside him and he might call an end to the hallmoot. But here he falters for the solemnity upon my face. He lifts my wrist from my side and clasps my fingers in his. His hand is warm and fingers sure of his grip.

"Are there those who would take her under their tutelage? You will see to it?" he asks, and I nod. I think he feels some relief, for he takes in a deeper breath for it, though his face is still shadowed.

"Come," my lord says and leads me forward. There we stand afore all assembled as he raises his voice.

"My thanks to you, folk of the Dúnedain. Though much grows shadowed beyond our sway, here is to be found much of peace and comfort as can be found in these times. For our strength is with each other, and to that we must hold. Shall we have another year as this past, then I shall consider myself and my House well-blessed. Good harvest to you and a blessing upon your day!'

"A good harvest!" I hear in scattered reply.

My lord then leads me to our home, winding his way through our folk, and he does not release my hand until he must open the wicket to lead me through the path that winds about the well.

~oOo~


	29. Chapter 28

~ Chapter 28 ~

_'Few other griefs amid the ill chances of this world have more bitterness and shame for a man's heart than to behold the love of a lady so fair and brave that cannot be returned.'_

ROTK: The Houses of Healing

~oOo~

_~ TA 3009, 19__th__ of Yavannië: Grind one small finger's length of ginger root. Add to it dried chamomile. Let steep in one mark of hot water until the draught tastes strongly of the ginger. Strain. Drink in small sips when warm but not hot. _

~oOo~

I think my lord and his kinsman in deep disagreement over me.

The even afore I had heard their raised voices out of doors and had thought them at their practice. I thought little of it other than remarking the harshness of their tones, but later came to realize I had heard naught of the clang of metal or crack of wood among their muffled words. I then came upon them in the hall from the buttery door after clearing away the remnants of our morning meal, only to find the room cold and the men in it suddenly silent. My lord had a look of weariness about him and Halbarad was much agitated. They are not oft at odds and it seemed to wear heavily on my lord's kinsman. For he paced and rapped his fingers upon the table, and then, clearing his throat, pulled roughly on the drawers beneath the settle, folded the blankets and otherwise tidied the place where he slept.

I poured the water I had pulled from the well into the barrel by the hearth, where we would draw from it for the day. Ah, but the sound of rushing water filled the hall and every movement I made, whether setting down the bucket or putting aside the grate and scraping the coals upon the hearth, rang overloud in my ears. When, at long last I was done, and a pottage of mutton, mushroom, and wheat sat upon the grate to simmer through the day, my lord rose, looking upon his kinsman.

When we broke our morning fast, I had spoken to my lord of my intent to visit Mistress Pelara after our meal, for I desired her counsel. After the hallmoot, I worried for the Angle and the fortress I was to build to shelter its people. I would not have the clay beneath the foundation shift and crack even in its making.

My ledgers lay upon the table waiting for me. Most oft, Halbarad accompanied me when I was about in the Angle, watching o'er his lord's lady's step as we went and spending the hours speaking with Master Maurus or looking in upon the other Elders. I was unsure what was to pass this morn, for Halbarad would not return his lord's gaze and his look was grim. Had I dared believe it, the tightness of his jaw and smoldering of his eyes betrayed mutinous thoughts beneath them.

But, when my lord let loose a soft breath and, releasing his kin from his gaze, reached for my journal to carry it for me, Halbarad spoke, his voice stiff.

"Nay," he said and strode swiftly to the table. "I shall go with her."

"Do you so wish it?" my lord asked, but he was to receive little by way of answer.

Instead his kinsman took up the ledger and, tucking it beneath the crook of his arm, turned to me and said, "I await your pleasure, my lady."

His manner was all but the coldest of invitations. Indeed, I felt no warmth in the hand that ushered me forward. But it seemed Halbarad would not wish to be deemed unworthy of any duty once he had assumed it, no matter how onerous, and my lord reluctant to relieve him of it. Who then was I to meddle in matters between them?

He strides silently and allows me to walk ahead, maintaining a discrete but watchful distance as ever. Halbarad carries my ledgers in a basket heavy with blankets, bread, and a lidded pot of beans, for the Mistress had sent word ahead of a family in need, and I wished to visit them. But for the metal spindle that bangs upon my hip from where it dangles and the roving bouncing in my carry sack, Halbarad has assumed my burdens for me. I have not the patience for attempting my spinning and it seems I know not what to do with my hands. After many fruitless trials, I settle upon clasping my arms afore my breast, so I might not betray my thoughts in the clenching of my fists.

It promises to be a fair day. High and white are the clouds that cast their shadows upon the hills. And they are welcome, for they promise relief from the heavy hand of the sun without threatening rain to delay the harvest. A flock of crossbills chatters from the stand of pines as we pass. Brightly they flutter among the branches and rustle through the straw pursuing fallen cones. Oh, soft do my lord's kin's feet fall upon the path and fine is the day, but ever am I aware of the steps behind me, and my thoughts fly beneath them as the dust we stir upon the path.

"Think you Mistress Pelara may have somewhat of use to say?"

Halbarad's voice startles me so badly I misplace my foot and come full down upon a stone. His hand beneath my arm rights me, but I draw swiftly away. I marvel he would ask me. And so it must show upon my face, for Halbarad's look is astonished.

"Is it not the discord among our folk that troubles you, my lady?"

"Aye," I say. "And why should she not have much of use to say upon the matter?"

We have halted upon the path and Halbarad rubs at the nape of his neck, looking off. "I thought it more a matter between men, my lady."

I must hide my annoyance poorly, for he goes on. "Ah, lady!" he says, grimacing. "You know not what horrors we face!"

Oh, had my lord's kin thought me meek of thought, he is much mistaken. Though I bare come to the man's shoulder, I would still match him eye for eye.

"Do I not? I know not the source of your discontent with me, Ranger Halbarad. Is it this?

"Come," I command and, coming upon my toes, lean in to him. "Tell me your tales! You will find I have heard them. Think you I shall quail and retreat? Attend upon me when we welcome those who have fled here. Just once come with me, and you will hear of all such manner of pain and degradation, as dark a tale as you could tell, and they had no sword with which to defend themselves."

"I speak not of stories told of some distant place, my lady. I speak of what shall happen here, to you."

I know not what to say to the man. I need not the acclaimed foresight of the Men of Westernesse to see what the future holds for the Angle. A small noise of disgust slips from me and I turn from him to continue our journey.

"Listen to me, Nienelen!" With but a stride he has closed upon me and set his broad hand about my arm.

I whirl about, but he has me in a grip of iron and I cannot rip myself from it. "Do not forget yourself, Ranger Halbarad!"

Had I a weapon I think I might have drawn it upon the man, but even that would have had little effect, for he towers o'er me and draws me close so he may speak low and I yet hear. He pins my gaze and will not release it.

"Aragorn has ordered me, against my wishes and against my counsel, to give over my responsibilities to the House to you. Should you ask it of me, I will do it. But I know not why you would want them!"

My jaw aches with the tightness with which I clench it. I have had enough of his resentments. 'Twas he who chose me to be our lord's wife and Lady of the Dúnedain, whether he regrets it now or not. I think him done and again attempt to pull away, but he gives me a small shake and speaks all the more harshly.

"Mark my words, Nienelen. The Nameless One need not send his spies to stir trouble among us. He will but tighten the net about us and we will accomplish it of our own. Think you it will not happen here, that we are too noble to be brought so low? For we are the Men of Westernesse? I tell you, my lady, our folk already turn on each other."

"I am not a child as has no thought for the morrow nor understanding of our past, Halbarad. Do not treat me as such!"

He laughs shortly, though bitter is the sound. "Aye, my lady, you are not a child and have proven your understanding, but you have not seen your own death in the eyes of another man. Think you, when was the last you saw Ranger Lathril, eh? I will tell you. 'Twas nigh upon six months ago, was it not? But you will not see him again. We found him upon the North Downs. 'Twas not the hillmen of the north nor orc that strung him from a tree for us to find, but our own folk. No longer are those who are left upon the northern Wild our friends. They turn their backs upon us and would thrust us from their meanest shelters should we beg their aid. We abandoned them to our enemies and they seek what is justice in their eyes. And I think it not far off from the truth."

"I know what comes! Think you a woman of the Dúnedain would not take up this fight as readily as any man? Why do you seek to frighten me?"

"Are you not frightened? You should be. I am. Do you not see where this path shall end? Our folk are frightened. And I tell you, Nienelen, fear makes orcs of us all. There are those here of the Angle who shall be eager to draw blood and there will be those who turn their backs and let it happen. Come the end, our folk will turn on the House of Isildur for our neglect of them. And you will be alone. For should it be as our lord commands, I, Aragorn, and his men, we will be far from here."

_Ai! _ I think mayhap I had known this, this thing of which he speaks, but had not brought it out to the harsh light of the sun where I must name it for what it is. For a chill came upon me as he speaks, and, at its bite, I have no words with which to rebut him. Surely my lord does not have it in him to use me as bait, there to distract his folk's grief and anger while he would then be free to work his plans, and then discard me when they latch their teeth upon me. I cannot believe it.

"You can refuse him," Halbarad says. No doubt my troubled thoughts show upon my face, for his voice and his grip soften, though he is no less earnest. "Say the word and I, too, shall defy him. Together we can force his hand. You need not choose it."

With this I wrench away from his hold and take a step from his easy reach.

"Who had the choosing of me when my lord had need of a wife?" I ask, though I have no doubt of the answer.

"I did," he asserts quickly, as had he no need to hide the fact, though he looks upon me with some confusion.

"Should you have thought me so unfit to fulfill the duties of the Lady of the Dúnedain, why then choose me? _'Twas thy choice, none other's!_"

He does not answer, but stands afore me, his feet squarely planted. His eyes have narrowed upon me.

"Is it as they say? That our lord owed my father his life when it was so closely threatened? That he but married me to pay the debt of my orphaning?"

"In truth, my lady, you may rest easy on that account," Halbarad says coldly. "Any man of the Angle could have done the same and I would ne'er saddled Aragorn with such a ridiculous means of discharging the debt."

"When you had the choice of all the women of the Angle with the blood of the great of Númenor in their veins, why me?"

"'Twas not for this."

"Then for what?" I ask and throw my hands wide. "Did you not know his mind so well and knew not what he would want of his wife? I clearly fail of what you would have me be. Should it be as you say, and I am doomed to fail of what our lord would have of me, why choose me?"

"Consider your choice well, Nienelen."

"You would have me refuse, and there remove the threat upon you, so you might secure your own position!"

Halbarad's brow rises but briefly upon my words. He speaks not but lowers a thunderous look upon me.

I am nigh to tears, so perplexed and thwarted do I feel. "_Ai!_ Will you not answer me, Halbarad? For I know not the answer to this riddle. How was it you chose me?"

He seems to come to some decision, for Halbarad stirs and speaks. "Should I give you answer will this satisfy you?"

_Ai!_ For the love of the Valar! "Aye! Yes, Halbarad. How can I consider your words should I not understand their source?"

At this, it seems he will relent, for though his jaw is tightly held, he looks about him for a moment, and then speaks.

"Aye, you are right in one thing. 'Twas your father's doing."

"What has my father to do with aught—"

"You come to know a man when upon the Wild as at no other time, my lady," he says, cutting me short. "I knew your father in ways you know not." He takes a great breath and goes on. "I knew him as a man. I knew when his courage wavered and what he drew from to steady himself."

I can do naught but return his stare, my mind whirring with my thoughts, for he looks sharply at me as would he wish I draw my own conclusions and trouble him no more. Tears prick behind my eyes. My father had known himself cherished and it carried him through his darkest hours. How can this cause me sorrow? And yet it does. My head aches and the day seems over-bright.

And then understanding falls upon me as sudden as the sun bursting through scudding clouds. There is no path that shimmers in the distant air, no bright sky nor blinding sun, just the beating of my heart in the tight cage that is my chest and the eyes of this Ranger of the North that meet mine.

"You know who she is, this woman my lord loves!" I exclaim and in the next moment gasp at the flash of alarm it draws across Halbarad's features. This was not what he had wished me to know.

Then it is gone. His gaze rests upon me with all the warmth of a winter sky and I am sharply reminded where his loyalties truly lie. The sun may blaze down upon the drooping heads of the flowering grasses, but I am cold with an unseasonable chill.

"I did what I deemed best, my lady," he says, "for our lord and for the Dúnedain."

At that I wonder had he given any thought to what it would cost me. And, there, I see my answer in his eyes, mixed with his anger. Pity.

I whirl about, for I would not have him look on me thus, and so I put my feet to the path and walk.

He could not have her, my lord, this woman he loved, and for his sacrifice his kinsman would then recompense him with the adoration and unswerving loyalty from his wife that she had turned to her own father. Aye, in this I truly fulfilled all of Halbarad's hopes for his kin.

I have left Halbarad staring as I walk from him. Yet he seems to have followed the trail of my thoughts as they played across my face, for soon I hear his voice and footsteps behind me.

"My lady." In one great stride to my two he will have caught me, and I wait for his hands upon me, but they do not come.

"Do not blame Aragorn!" Though he implores, his voice is stern. "He knew naught of this. He is not free to speak the lady's name and the matter was of my own discerning. Have you cause for offense, let it rest with me."

I turn. I tremble so I know Halbarad only by the shadow that falls across my face. I know not what he sees, but it widens his eyes and causes him to halt and take an abrupt step back. I rush upon him and strike him full in the chest with all of what strength I have. To my hands he is as a wall of stone, yet he staggers and drops the basket he carries for me. It falls to the ground in a clatter of crockery.

"Even now you give offense!" I shout, and he stares at me, blinking.

"You thought," I say and halt, stumbling o'er my words. "You thought I would love him from his shadow. That I would be content to stay there, as I was –"

Tears come upon me, unbidden. I do not wish to shed them, but it is as they have a will of their own.

"As I was with my father," I say at last, "and as I was with my sister."

"And you knew," I go on, "you knew I would not take up Bachor's offer of aid when my father died. You knew of what passed between us and that I would ever champion my lord against him because of it."

"I knew not -" he begins.

"The whole of the Angle knows of it!" I cry.

"Oh, you have been exceedingly clever, Ranger Halbarad. You took advantage and built a pretty little hutch to trammel me in when I was trapped by my circumstances. Do not deny it. But I am no creature of the wild to gnaw off my own foot in attempt to escape or slink to its corner and make myself small and there accede to my fate.

"You thought I would stay small and hide in my lord's shadow, that I would be content with what crumbs of fondness he could offer and cause little trouble by asking for more."

I may not have the strength nor edged weapon to draw blood from the man, but it does not follow that I have no power to wound him.

"You thought this," I say, my voice low, "for it is what you do."

At this, he starts and draws in a swift breath, his mouth twisting bitterly.

"My lady-" Halbarad begins through clenched teeth. He has more to say, but I will not hear it.

"Do not think you know me for aught my father may have said of me. You think he knew me? You do not know me, Ranger Halbarad. You cannot." His gaze flicks quickly to my hand where I clutch through the fabric of my dress at the small purse that hangs ever about my neck. "Only she knew me. And she is long dead."

I let my hand fall to my side.

"Pick it up." I need not say what. The will of the House supersedes the will of a captain of my lord's Rangers. It is I to command and he to discern my wishes.

I wait, for in the quiet of the wind soughing through the pines and the call of birds he mutely shakes his head. His lips pressed tightly together, he will not look at me. Had I the chance, I would pity the man. But I do not, and I cannot.

"You are the Lord of the Dúnedain's second, his kinsman, and have earned his trust by tests I can in no way match. I have no desire to contest that. But neither shall you relegate me to a state less than what I am."

Halbarad shakes his head, as would he hear no more of what I have said. "Do not do this. You can deny him, my lady. But say the word, I will stand beside you and we can present our minds of one accord. He will not like it, but he will accept it, and give you another, more fitting task. 'Twas not for this I chose you; to set you on this path to your death and then abandon you to it."

"'Tis done already, Halbarad," I say and sigh. "I am our lord's wife. It was done when you first asked, and I first answered. There is no undoing it. Should it come to it, there shall be little you could do to stay their hand, and we shall have need of at least the one of us to keep to the course our lord set. You say you would not abandon me to its fate? Name me a fool or innocent, but I would be better comforted knowing my death did not cost us all for which we have sacrificed and fought. In truth, this end you fear is as like to come to you as it is to come to me, no matter our choice.

"Pick it up," I say softly.

His eyes shine with unshed tears and he blinks swiftly to rid himself of them. Through dint of what must be long practice, he has mastered himself. Though his face is carefully blank as he stares at the dirt beneath our feet, for a long moment I think he might still refuse the command. I know not what I might do should he still choose to defy me.

"As my lady wishes," Halbarad says at last, and, bending down, wearily scoops the basket up from where it lies in the dirt.

I turn away and do not urge him to follow. But, soon, I hear his steps behind me upon the soft dirt and know he has joined me.

~oOo~

I have learned to sleep quietly, to school my restless limbs into a stillness that will not disturb my lord's slumber. In the first few nights of his return, he awakens at each rustle of the mattress or pull upon the coverlet, and springs upright. Long ago, when first we came to share this bed, the sight of his face contorted by alarm and the swift hand that closed about my throat and pinned me to the mattress when I chanced to brush upon him had frightened me. Slowly he came to know what he had done and a horror came o'er him. His brow dropped to rest upon me, leaving me to stare at the wooden canopy in grim reflection, the crown of his head dark upon my breast. Long seemed the moments ere he spoke, and then when he lifted his face, words failed him. For, though I swallowed and blinked them away, I could not prevent the fall of my tears.

"_Ai,_ lady!" he sighed and wearily seemed as were he about to beg my forgiveness.

But I did not let him speak, and instead clutched him to my breast where I wrapped my arms about him as had they some power to shield him better than his sharp-edged blades. There he lay, though somewhat stiffly, until I had quieted. When he rose, by his look I think he marveled that I had wept for him. It was then he pulled my back into his breast with soft words seeking to make amends. His arm lying heavy upon me and his breath slipping along my shoulder had gentled me to sleep, but I ne'er forgot that look upon his face. For, in that night, I had come to pity the lightness of sleep he must assume when weariness overcomes him in the Wild.

Soon, as the nights spread behind him in the comforts of our bed, my lord learns again the safety found within these walls and eases into a deep sleep from which few nightly noises rouse him. When the mattress has been taught the hills and hollows of his form, his body falls to a quiet repose lasting until the dawn. This night is such a one.

High in the dark sky rides the moon, bathing the Angle with an unearthly light. At this hour, even the small creatures that scuttle beneath the undergrowth or tuck themselves in the grass about the foundations of the house have fallen silent. All is still. In the quiet of the solar, my lord's face is lit by the moon, the skin upon the lids of his eyes and the curve of his brow and lips touched by a cold fire. A cool breeze floats into the room, bringing with it the smell of deep shadows under green leaves. It lifts fine hairs about his face, but he does not wake. This night he sleeps where I cannot.

In this bed which bears the weight of my husband and moves when his dreams loosen his limbs, I watch the rise and fall of his breast. What bitter words I said beneath the heat of the sun have cooled here in the shadows. My mind is free to roam paths that once were obscured by the fog of too-strong feeling.

_'Tinúviel'_ he once called me, and then no more. Nay, I can hardly be mistaken for the daughter of Thingol, High King of the Sindar, of legends of old, but there is one my lord knows from his youth who could. He reaches high in his yearning, my lord does, yet who am I to say him nay. I know not her thoughts on the matter, nor those of her father, who might not countenance her stooping so low as to forsake the immortality he had gifted her. For all the grief it brings me, I pity my lord, this man who sleeps beside me so gently. I know the thirst with which he burns and the despair he must feel of having it quenched.

He sighs, and breathing deeply, his slumber lightens, and he shifts, rolling to his side so he faces me, his body a broad canvas to bear the light of the moon. I think I could stay like this through the hours until he wakes, reveling in the warmth coming off his skin that shields me from the night air. Here, I can forget, for so long as my lord sleeps, that he is not mine, that his love belongs to another. Here, I can watch the lashes that shadow his cheek and the strong fingers that rest upon his thigh and keep him all to my selfish heart. The dawn will come soon enough.

While I watch, his eyes open and glimmer with the reflected moon. Heavy with dreams, they see naught. After a long moment, his gaze sharpens upon me and he shrugs his face into the pillow to bring wakefulness.

"You do not sleep, lady?"

"I have a thing to tell you, my lord."

Secure in the comfort that rest merely awaits the closing of his eyes, he does not protest. He is but newly awake. The coolness of the night and the softness of the bed bring a languor that invites him to stretch his limbs ere attending to aught I might need to say. He resettles upon his side with his arms crossed against his breast and smiles upon me.

"What is so pressing it cannot await the morn, lady?" he asks, his voice soft and slow with sleep. "Have you secrets that can only be told in the deepest watches of the night?"

"I do indeed, my lord," I say and trail fingers down his arm until they rest upon his wrist.

His brow lowers, and he peers at me without comprehension, but I am already pulling his hand from where he has it wedged between his side and the crook of his arm. I draw his hand toward me where I can lay my cheek aside his knuckles. I long to kiss his hand and pull him into my arms, and, had they the chance, have my voice and touch pour fire into his veins, but, instead, I move his hand until his palm rests upon my belly.

"My lord, you shall leave somewhat of yours behind when next you must go," say I, and he is instantly alert, all lassitude fled with the knowledge of what I intend.

He has come up on his elbow and his hand presses me to my back. His fingers move against my flesh as were he searching for signs of the child therein. His hair shadows his face and I cannot see what tale his features would tell. I know not were he silent out of joy or despair. I wait, as frozen as the hunted hare underneath my lord's touch. And then he moves.

_"My thanks to thee_, lady," he says softly, and, poising his body o'er mine, kisses my brow.

Moving away, he takes my hand lightly and eases himself to comfort, and closes his eyes. We sleep thus, his hand holding mine, bridging the distance between us.

~oOo~


	30. Chapter 29

~ Chapter 29 ~

_'Only a Ranger!' cried Gandalf. `My dear Frodo, that is just what the Rangers are: the last remnant in the North of the great people, the Men of the West.'_

FOTR: Many Meetings

~oOo~

_~ TA 3009, 20__th__ of Yavannië: As of the events of yestereve's hallmoot, the increase in oathmen and their fires upon the Angle recognized and pledges rises to o'er 60 portions of 100. With but increase of 40 more fires, The House shall carry two votes upon the Angle's Council. _

~oOo~

Upon the next morn, I awoke early. The sky lightened slowly in the frame of the solar's windows and I, curled upon my side, watched the sun's rising and listened to the soft sounds my lord made as he slept.

A thing I have learned of him; my lord takes his pleasure most oft upon his awakening. Atimes, I would rouse to his lips upon the ridge of my ear and his hands upon me, calling softly to me. Others, he would stretch his limbs to find me waking and so draw me to him to gentle himself fully alert. And then there were the dawns when I awoke ere my lord and held myself as were I slumbering still. For I knew, should I rise from the bed we shared, 'twas not likely I would feel his touch that day.

This day was such a one. I lay quiet and watched the growing light of the dawn, listening to the chaffinch, blackbird, and dove greet the day as my lord's sleep grew restless. He stirred behind me and I could feel it. He moved, and I heard the rustling of the linens, yet still I lay there, and waited, wondering.

'Twas when the dawn chorus quieted, my lord drew in a swift breath and sat upon the edge of the bed, rubbing at his face. He then rose and poured water to the bowl upon the tall chest, there to wash and dress for the day, and I had my answer.

I suppose I should not be ungrateful. I had taken him to task for his neglect and he had done as I requested, and, as a result, we achieved what we had set out to do. It seemed my lord saved his efforts for where they were most needed. And yet -

And yet.

I waited, lying silently upon our bed. Had I hope my quiet would fool my lord into thinking me asleep? I know not, but, in the end, it mattered little. For, whether he knew not I was wakeful or saw through my lie and yet allowed me my pretense, my lord prepared swiftly for the day and left the solar upon light feet.

Only then, when I heard my lord's voice in the hall below, did I rouse, turning to my back and taking in the expanse of empty bed beside me. The sheets were yet warm to the touch where he once lay, and the pillow still held the form of his head where he had slept. Faint was his scent upon them. And were I to press my face to his pillow and find what pleasure I could of myself there in the bed linens, with the morning sun warming the solar at my back, I hope only that the judgment upon me shall be tempered with mercy. My lord was not there, for there was much to do. The Lord of the Dúnedain was to attend upon his people and he would not keep them waiting. Nor should I, and so, when I could discern his scent no longer, I rose to start the day.

My lord has no standard, for no kingdom can the Dúnedain of the North claim, but his colors of dark blue and silver fly in streamers set upon poles skirting the tents and about the threshing floor. Come the setting of the sun, the cool night breeze shall rise and send them to flashing in the torchlight, but upon the morning, the sun shone bright upon their colors, adding their merriment to the bustling of our folk.

'Twas not our greatest yield this harvest, this is true, for the summer and fall wanted some for rain. But 'twould serve. None of the Angle need go hungry this winter and we may yet begin to build our reserves for times of greater want. This, in itself, would be sufficient blessing, but their lord, by setting his hand to labor with his folk, lingered in the Angle to share in their rest and celebration. And share he would, for the first time in more years than the Angle could recall, though they might search their memories mightily and ne'er leave off their gossip. It seemed my lord's folk were thus determined to make the most of their lord's time among them. And so, with a mood bent upon his enjoyment of it, seemed he.

For in our absence yesterday, Halbarad and I, my lord went to his recalcitrant Ranger as he lay upon the bed in which he healed. I hear tell my lord visited words I have not heretofore heard spoken in my presence upon Ranger Haldren, so great was my lord's wroth and relief. In the abundance of his confidence in his own skill, the man had broken with my lord's commands in setting out on his own. To hear my lord speak of it, he bore the rebuke as ever, with little to be told of his thoughts upon his sharp features. For this, my lord stripped him of rank, assigned Ranger Mathil to his kin's care, and, in the final blow, gave him the task of tutoring Ranger Gelir in his stead. This, upon our noon meal, he told to Halbarad, who laughed until, red-faced, he could nigh not breathe for it.

Aye, and Halbarad had much need of the attention. For when we returned ere the midday meal, it was to find my lord awaiting us in the hall. He took in his kin's somber mood and the resolute set to my look, and set to attending upon him. They spent the day in each other's company, and, until we were in our beds, I left them to it.

When the sun rose to stain the sky in golds and pinks, I saw my lord transformed. There in the hall, with the mutual aid of his kin, layer upon layer they donned. Padded tunics and hauberks of mail over which were belted long, split vests of a sober grey linen they wore. They tied padded hoods upon their heads beneath mail coifs and pinned long dark mantels to their shoulders with the star of the Dúnedain. Their helms and gauntlets they carried with them, for the day dawned fair and they would feel the morning against their cheeks. No design had they blazoned upon the dark cloth and their helms sported no plumes. Grim and fey seemed they when they mounted and road afore Master Herdir's cart, though my lord made merry and sang the small bits of ribald songs he felt my company might allow and coddled his kin into joining him. For my part, I found I shivered to look upon them.

My own preparations had taken the longer, though I should hope I did not look so stern. I chose one of my lord's lady mother's dresses with the widest skirts and forewent winding even the brightest of my scarves about my hair. Instead, I plaited my hair loosely from behind one ear to the other so it stood as a crown upon my head and framed my face. There behind my ears, I fixed the plaits with ribbons so that the bright bits of silk fell loose with my curls and trailed low about my shoulders and upon my back. Ah, mayhap I can be forgiven my vanity on such a day, for I greatly hoped to join the dancing that was sure to come in the evening. 'Twould be my one chance, I deem. A maid may join the circle upon the threshing floor, partnered or no, but once married only her husband can lead her hand there.

Our folk slowly gathered in the meadow. There the threshing floor had been swept clear, and about it great tents were being erected and tables and benches brought from our folk's halls. They have taken shifts at the Angle's ovens, tossing kindling into its belly throughout the night and pulling from it meat pies of many flavors, pastries of every kind, and round loaves of bread with the star of the Dúnedain cut upon their tops. Ale barrels lie stacked in a small hill and the last of our wine skins dangle from the boughs of a tent as were they fruit growing to ripeness beneath its canopy. Butter and cheeses and herbs and roots and dishes of every make there were. Already Elder Tanaes sets boar and venison to the spits where unlucky lads, for their punishment, shall spend the morning caring for their roasting. Soon the tables will groan with the feast, for all good things to eat shall be laid upon them.

Oh, much eating shall there be, my lord and I sitting upon a raised table in the company of his Rangers, and dining on the food he labored with his folk to provide. But there, too, shall be races in which the women carry their husbands upon their backs amidst a great uproar of laughter. Ere the noon meal, we shall tramp upon the boundary and fathers shall take their sons beneath their shoulders and bump them against the markers of the Angle's village. A tree here, a boulder there, they must come to learn them, for they are the boundaries of their lives. And upon the middle of the day the men shall gather upon the field and play a game wherein there is much running and buffeting as they seek to bring down the one unfortunate man with a rag-stuffed ball of leather. Great oaths are sworn upon this game, and we stand on the sides and fan ourselves with our hats and drink our ale, hooting and calling out insults to the players. The women shall stand and gossip and their children run about our feet, making great mischief that no one checks, and our old men shall sit in the shade hunched o'er boards with wooden pieces or dice and steal each other's pennies.

But ere all this, ere the sun has climbed too high to make the padding and metal they wear unbearable and ere his men have drunk too much ale to dull the sharp edge of their wits, my lord leads his men to the meadow. There, they sit upon their horses in opposing lines and the morning sun makes bright the glittering mail, helms, and banners. Their mounts dance upon the far edges of the meadow, as eager to begin, it seems, as the men who ride them. Once settled, my lord dons his helm and kicks his warhorse to the front of his line. There he awaits Halbarad to prepare the men across the field. Ah, but they look proud and tall.

And then Halbarad gives the signal and the hum of voices of the folk gathered there quiets so that the jangling of bit and snapping of cloth are the only sounds heard. A man raises his son to his shoulders where the boy stares at the spectacle, and it is not only the young that gaze upon it with widened eyes and solemn faces. I think my lord cunning in the display, for he achieves many aims with one act. His Rangers take a much-needed practice, his people are entertained and heartened for the show of skill, and their men are made envious. He has not yet asked for the aid of his folk in defending their land, but I doubt not it soon to come.

And then my lord raises his sword and I hear his voice in a loud cry and, as water swollen by the spring storms that pushes restlessly upon the prison of the dam, they spill o'er its rim and the horses' hooves sound as thunder rolling o'er the tops of the hills. With blunt poles and clubs the lines race at each other, shouting, and with the sound as of the rending of the very earth do they collide.

I will not turn away, but I find I cannot look upon them for long. For I see not the melee of men upon the field, nor hear their cries. I know naught of sunshine upon the grass, nor the crack of the banners in the wind of their passing. For filling my mind's eye is the sight of my lord's proud body in a dark and noisome place, broken by some fell beast, unmarked, unmourned, unburied._ Ai! _A bitter end it would be, should one day he fail of his return.

'Twas after, when they hauled friend and foe alike up from where they had fallen, my lord and his Rangers mingled among our folk. There my lord put his warhorse through his paces, taking one lad after another upon his saddle with him. He nudged the great box-headed beast into turning about and galloping across the field with naught but his knees, so he might let loose a bolt from his bow into a great bag of straw hanging from the tree. Each lad returned safely, though a bit windblown and dazed with wonder. Once he was done, his Rangers followed him in the exercise, some with more success than others. Halbarad, I noted, watched them carefully, and I doubt not those who failed in their attempts would be set to much effort to correct their fault.

I saw little of Mistress Pelara, though oft I heard her voice. She scolded and urged, pled and browbeat whomever was within her reach, for once she discovered my lord would attend upon his folk, she refused me my role in seeing to the order of the feasting and took it for herself. Instead, I spent much of my time wandering now and again among our folk, eager to hear of how they fared. And when I tired and wished for quiet, I sought the spindle and wool I had hidden in the cart and kept gentle company with the old women who roundly tease and tell tales on one another and spin in the shade.

There my lord found me, bringing me Mistress Pelara's ale with such smug delight upon his face it seemed he thought it was he who had discovered its superior taste. With him too, he brought meat pies and pastries to share. There he rested ere the even's events, sitting in the grass and leaning his back against the tree, his long legs stretched out afore him, silent beside me. Thus we lingered in the grass, listening to the voices of our folk and watching as they passed, speaking little until the night lit its first stars o'er the tops of the thatched roofs and breathed its cool airs upon us.

I watch my lord amidst his people. There he walks among them where they mingle, eating as they stand or telling great tales, smiling and at ease. Should he pause for a moment, a man of the Rangers may catch his ear with a tale that makes him laugh. Should his folk speak to him, gravely he inclines his head to catch their words. Should a lady blush when his gaze falls upon her, he inclines his head with grace. Should a man upend his cup, my lord takes up a pitcher from the nearest table, fills it for him, and then joins him in the drinking. Atimes, I hear his laughter, strong and low, and full of joy. It seems the love the Dúnedain bear for their lord is well returned.

In my last sight of him ere I lose his trail, my lord scratches at his bearded cheek as he laughs and colors. I know not why, but it was upon somewhat Halbarad said. For his kin stands nearby and my lord next cuffs the man's back with his open hand ere turning away and losing himself in the company.

And then I have put away my spinning, for the folk gather quickly about the threshing floor. We stand in the light of the torches, the sounds of the small insects of the fields thrumming behind us and the fire snapping in the light breeze. For they have struck up the drum and the mummers weave their steps among us. Their herald calls for his company to gather round.

"Room! Room!" he cries, and the folk give way. "Gentles, room! Give us room for rhymes! For upon this floor, we poor folk, shall show some of your past times!"

There in a circle about the threshing floor the torches burn bright and flicker in the night's chill. Oh, but their mummery is clever. I have no doubt they take great delight in its wickedness. For they have named it The Lord and His Maid, and I see my lord and myself mocked in it.

The maid is the picture of modesty and the lord but cautiously courteous. Much beleaguered is he by the suits of Ranger fathers and their fair daughters. Ever does the crowd shout its warning and he, all unknowing, pulls his hand away at the last moment when it would be joined with another's behind his back. Ever the maid lingers at the fringes of the folk, her own father boisterous, telling his tales and giving the lord no heed. Each way he moves, the father covers his daughter with his shadow. And yet, the lord and the maid meet atimes, coming upon each other of a sudden and then falling still. He puzzles o'er her until he is again dragged away.

"Do you enjoy their play-acting?" I hear at my ear and turn.

My lord has come to my side without my knowing it, so wrapped in the sound of drum and call of the herald am I. The smile he turns upon me is fond and warm, and in his hand he holds a cup of horn filled with a deep red wine. By the high color upon his cheeks I do not think it his first.

"You have drunk too much of wine, my lord," say I and his smile deepens.

"Nay, lady." He pulls me to him, so he might watch the mummers o'er my head. He then rests his chin upon me and lets loose a long breath. "I have had just enough."

So full of wine is he, he does not forebear from pressing my back against his breast and spreading his fingers full upon my belly. And so full of pride am I for this man, I cannot forebear from pressing his arm to me where he cradles my middle.

"Who is this maid, she who hides here?" bellows the herald as he turns about so his voice might be heard to even the back of our gathering. "Daughter is she of lord's Ranger, whose face he sees oft there, but whose name is still all the stranger."

Ah, but then it becomes clear who this maid, for it is she that pursues him! Ever does she wait for just the moment at which she may catch her lord's eye and then slip away behind her father or the other daughters. Ever does he whirl about to catch a glimpse of her as she passes fleetingly by. Oh, but she teases and bedevils him, ever with downcast gaze and eyes that, when hidden, look at more than they should.

Such is the tale they would tell of us. And my lord laughs for it. Most especially does the maid's scheming call forth his merriment. Deep his laughter shakes against me at the players' mockery. Ever and anon I clap my hands to my face, so shamed am I and, though he might press me to him to give me comfort, he laughs all the harder for it.

But then from the crowd burst forth men clad in black and red, with masks of bone. With tattered rags sewn as a mop upon their coats, they spin and their ragged ribbons flutter about them. There they swing lengths of wood tipped with antler so swiftly the long ribbons of blood red cloth affixed to them snap at the air about us. The daughters disappear, scattering behind the backs of their fathers, for the lord rallies his men and circles to meet their foe.

"'Ware, you people, now ware!" cries the herald. "Get you now blade and bow!"

I can see naught for the flurry of motion but then, of a sudden, the lord is cut off from his men and beset by beasts that weave and bob afore him. The men pursue their enemy, leaping o'er the wall about the threshing floor and chasing them into the crowd.

"For the orc has crept from his lair!" comes the cry to the steady thrum of drumbeat.

A thrust from the lord's weapon and one of his enemy falls but, with a gasp from the crowd, the other lays a great blow upon him, throwing him to the ground. His sword flies from his hand, wood skittering upon the threshing floor. Stunned, the lord lays there, the beast's face white as bone and grinning above him, with his spear raised high.

"And with spear would lay your lord low," the herald cries and down comes the rod of wood and bone in a blow sure to strike the lord full upon his breast and pin him to the threshing floor.

Of a sudden comes a loud cry and the maid's father leaps from full atop the threshing floor wall upon the beast. The spear clatters to the stones as the men fall. There they grapple upon the ground and I can hear naught but the wild beating of the drums and my heart.

_Ai! Have pity, Nienna._ I have no wish to see my father's death played out afore my eyes.

It seems my lord would not, either, for he has fallen very still, and his arm holds me stiffly to him. I need not turn to know the look upon my lord's face. Sure it is to be bleak.

In a great jostling among the crowd, orc and men rush upon the threshing floor. I can see no more of the maid's father, nor the orc, or lord in the melee. They whirl upon one another, clashing their wooden spears against each other, and throwing men to tumble at the feet of the watching crowd. Then the men scatter as were they a herd of deer at a sudden noise.

The drums have fallen silent and no herald cries usher the players to their stage. There is naught laying on the threshing floor but the lord and his man, and the maid kneeling at her father's body. There she hides her face in her hands and collapses until she lays her brow upon his breast.

My lord has pressed his face to the crown of my head. I know not were he looking upon the mummers' play, but I can look at naught else.

Slow the lord rises from the ground. When his stride reaches his man's side, he sinks to kneel beside them. When the maid would cling to her father and hide her face from him, he takes her shoulders in his hands and pulls her to her feet. When she would turn away and crumple in upon herself, he takes her chin in his hand and urges her to stand tall and look him full in the face. He steps but a short distance away, looking at her in full who he had only caught in fleeting glimpse. He then raises his hand, offering it to her. She, full of wonderment, stares from hand to face, until, eschewing the hand he offers, she flings herself upon him and kisses the lord heartily.

At this a great cry of laughter and relief rises from the crowd about us. The people of the Angle cheer and clap as the lord and maid embrace and the company gathers about them.

When the mummers are done, their audience's laughter dies down and I would hide my thoughts from the Angle's gaze.

"Come, lady," my lord says softly, and then bends his lips to my ear. "Be easy. I would see you be merry, today, while we have the chance of it. Pray do not trouble yourself with things that are past."

Aye, my lord is in the right. I should not. Let the Angle tell itself its stories as they may. This is not what troubles me. As my lord's palm cradles his child yet to be, it came to me that I would have my child know the man who is his father. I would have him sit secure in the warmth of his regard, drop his eyes for shame at the chill of his anger, and dance about his feet at the prod of his eagerness. All these things I would have, and so rest all the more closely to my lord's breast and wonder do I ask too much.

"My lord?"

He gives answer with a soft rumble of sound, deep in his cup as he is.

"Should we announce the impending birth of your heir?"

He lowers the wine to swiftly look about him. For, while we linger, the folk mill about the threshing floor and the musicians set their stools just outside its wall.

With this, he makes a thoughtful noise and looks upon me, holding me close as afore. He then gently tips my face to his with a knuckle, so he might press his lips upon me. There he lingers for a long moment and tastes of the sweetness of the wine.

"There, lady," he says, smiling brightly. "'Tis done. Look you."

And he has the right of it, for at his prompting I see the furtive glances and meaningful looks shared over cups and behind hands. Their eyes point at my belly where my lord has run a gentle thumb through it all.

"Let them talk and have their joy of feeling clever," he says and drains the rest of his wine from his cup.

At this I must wonder at my lord's display of tenderness. Should I think him warm from the wine or truly fond? Or is it that he lays yet another carefully wrought stone to the walls of defense he would build around us?

"How long until you leave, my lord?"

"Let us not speak of that just yet," he says and moves away, releasing me.

The night is chill against my back where once he stood. I think, when he lays his cup upon the short wall about the floor, he will then take to mingling amidst his folk again. But he turns to me and speaks, lifting his hand for mine.

"Come, lady!"

He takes my fingers in his sure grip, and I follow. He makes his way swiftly through the crowd, pulling me after him, for the dancers call for a final couple to make the count complete.

"I must beg you forgive me," says he ere we begin.

His hands are caught up in the men's next to him and so he leans low to whisper in my ear where he stands afore me. For the viol struck up the first few notes of the round, and by this we knew the dance. The men moved to stand shoulder to shoulder in a circle, facing in to the woman of their choice.

"Surely there is naught you could do should need my pardon, my lord," I whisper back at him, mindful of the ears of the woman whose hand holds mine. She turns her gaze elsewhere with just a shade too much deliberation.

"I can only pray you recall it when I stomp upon your feet," he says.

At this, I laugh and my lord smiles to see my mirth, but then he is gone, for the drum rolls and the pipe and viol sing. The caller sets our feet to motion, the women moving lightly in one direction and the men striding swiftly in the other.

So my lord partnered me upon the threshing floor, light of foot though not always familiar with the steps. But, being of a quick mind and schooled to setting his body where he would wish it, he listened and learned swiftly, and I had all the dancing I might wish. He took great delight in it and my heart made free to be merry. And when he released me, when he watched the folk trailing sleepily from the threshing floor and field to their beds, I saw the somber look in his eye. I knew then he soon would go, and the days of late summer, golden in their sunlit days and warm in their moonlit nights, were to be at an end.

True it was, for upon a dawn not long from then, I stood at the stoop afore the great door and waited to give my lord his farewell. I hear his feet within, striding swiftly from table to chest and back again. I do not wish to watch him as he prepares to leave, and so preceded him out the great door. There I need not hold my face in pleasing form but may allow my thoughts to show where he will not see. For I have much to think upon.

Aye, I do not worry for myself. Indeed, I find a craving twitches in my belly and I am eager to begin. For my place now is much changed. I have caught them looking, the folk of the Angle, with eyes that hold much of hope. Their greetings are warmer, and their touch lingers. I have done the work of digging the foundation, and the folk now appear willing to lay the stones. My lord shall have his fortress. Let that be one less burden upon him!

"Lady! Where have you put my bedroll?" My lord's voice comes afore him and he strides quickly through the door with his pack in his fist. "I have looked all places I can think and still not found it."

There he halts, frowning upon me, and then lets loose a sudden sound of chagrin. For I stand waiting for him with folds of a sturdy wool cradled in my arms.

"Ah, lady, you could have spared me the search," he says, dropping his pack and taking the cloth from me.

He handles it, I think, with a new appreciation, squeezing its fibers to test its depth and warmth. He shakes out its length to fold it anew and roll it tight when he scowls at the weave, examining it closely.

"Is this what I think?" he demands, his eyes sudden and bright upon me.

"Aye, my lord, 'twas made by your own hand."

My fingers come of themselves to smooth the deep nap, teased as it was from the wool after it's fulling. For I took it off the loom and bound it about the edges to make of it a study cover. It shall keep my lord warm and, I hope, lift his heart with memory.

"And this was to be my gift in farewell from the moment you hung your warp?"

"E'en afore, my lord."

He shakes his head and folds the blanket on itself, rolling it tightly against his breast to make of it a small package.

"Ah! My time here has revealed much of you, lady. Do not think I shall put my trust in your words so lightly then, now I am forewarned," my lord says, though the words are fondly spoken. His glance comes upon me atimes while he rolls the cloth. "A faithless woman, you are, to deceive me, and so coolly done, too."

Ah, he does not fool me. I see that twinkle of light deep in his eyes.

"'Tis no fault of mine, my lord, should you have misunderstood. I told you no lie."

"Aye, but you have shown great skill in avoiding revealing the whole truth of it, it seems," he says from where he kneels to lash the blanket to his pack.

"What of the whole wish you to know, my lord? Wish you to hear of the hares burrowing beneath the garden fence and feasting on the yarrow, or of the ewe who follows Master Baran around bleating like a bell until he turns and scratches her upon her neck, or mayhap you would wish to know that your new warhorse, that dragon of a four-footed beast, has taken to leaning against the stone fence of his pasture to test its strength until he finds a spot that crumbles, or that I think I shall leave be the snakes nesting beneath our house in hopes they shall catch that mouse I came upon in the pantry this morn?"

At this, my lord makes a rude noise of amusement and rises. No doubt he recalls the sound of my shriek, for it had sounded loud enough he had run from his preparations in the hall, only to halt and laugh at me in the pantry.

"Forgive me, my lord, but 'tis you who are the heir of Westernesse and bear the blood that gives you clear sight," I go on. "As far as I could best tell you perceive all my thoughts down to the smallest detail and knew these things already. But now I know more your wishes, my lord, I shall make sure I keep you informed of all these things, daily, upon your wakening, o'er your meals, at your ale and over your pipe, and when you lay down your head, and all in as much detail as you would wish."

"Woman!" he cries and laughs. "Enough of your prattle! Aye, truly I desire to know more of your mind, but teach me not to pray for the days when you were silent!"

With that, he grasps the sides of my face in his hands and soundly presses his lips to mine, the kiss loud and swift.

"There!" he says, withdrawing his hands. I think him amused to find so much of her father in his wife, for he looks upon me fondly, though, it seems, with somewhat of impatience, too. "Now, give me my farewell and have done with it!"

Oh, aye, my heart aches in my breast and, should I think too closely on the days to come I might then wish to weep. But, oh, I would give my lord a hearty farewell such that he shall look back upon this day and smile, though all about him is dark and perilous.

"Aye, my lord," I say and step to him so I might clasp his head and there speak my words o'er its crown. I take a deep breath and begin, for I have prepared what I would say.

_"Shall the sun warm thee when the days grow chill. Shall the land feed thee when thou art hungry. Shall the darkness of night be thy cover and give thee sweet rest. Shall the steps of thine Enemy be led astray and may the Valar watch over thee. And when thou art done, may the stars they light in the heaven lead thee safely home._"

"_My thanks to thee_," he says and, when I release him, I think he shall leave, but he stays near and his hand comes to rest lightly upon my belly.

There between us he whispers words I do not understand. In their soft sounds I hear the snap of the fire at the hearth, the brush of the breeze upon the tops of the trees, and waves breaking upon a shore I have not seen.

With the same hand he then swiftly cups my face, his thumb playing upon my cheek for but a brief caress and then it is gone.

"Be well."

~oOo~


	31. Chapter 30

Warning: illness during pregnancy and childbirth

~ Chapter 30 ~

_There he said farewell to Eldarion, and gave into his hands the winged crown of Gondor and the sceptre of Arnor._

ROTK: Appendix A: Annals of the Kings and Rulers

~oOo~

_~ TA 3009, 3__rd__ of Hísimë: 6 marks of spring water, 2 mark of honey, boil and skim, putting in the white of 8 eggs, and a mark of cold water, to make the scum rise. Let boil, skimming well; then pour into earthen vessel, with 3 spoonfuls of barm and half-bushel of cowslip flowers clip'd and beat. Stir well together. Upon the fourth day tun it up, stop it close for 10 days then bottle it._

~oOo~

I am not well.

_Ai! _Is it not enough my stomach must turn at the smell of the cold hearth and food sits there uneasily? But, now, once my belly has settled itself in these last months of my confinement, I have fallen truly ill.

I awoke in the midst of the night in a sweaty tangle of sheets, wool, and fur coverlet, aching and muddle-headed. When the dawn came, my thoughts were no clearer. In my daze, I dreamed of the trading boats of my youth scraping their hulls against the timbers of the river docks, only to rouse to the sound of Elesinda shifting tubs and barrels about in the pantry.

Startled at the thought I had greatly overslept, I sat full up and then wished I had not. My head pounded, and my neck was stiff, and it seemed the lids of my eyes were fixed shut with a noisome substance. I fumbled with my clothes and made haste with my toilet. Mayhap I should have foregone the effort, for it was ill-fated from the start.

A plague on my hair! It stood about my head in a cloud I could not tame no matter what I attempted. Short of plunging my head into a bucket, I doubt I could have made it lie flat or catch in the careless braid that hung down my back. A sight I must have made, stumbling into the hall squinting at the pain that was the morning light in my eyes, for the look upon Halbarad's face when he turned to me was one of alarm.

For in the months of my confinement, we have come to a peace, he and I. Ever do I remain alert for those moments he has need of a gentle word or small act of gratitude, for, after much thought, I have come to wonder at the lengths he goes to to hide his heart from those who love him most. He, in turn, once he learned of my condition, has taken to anticipating my comfort, leaping to my aid so swiftly should I attempt to lift aught more heavy than my own arms or drop my body no lower than my bench, that my lord is left with naught to do but stare at his kin in bewilderment.

"How does she fare?" I hear a voice ask at the foot of the stairs, mingling with the clink of metal.

"The headaches and weariness have returned. My lady is abed, though reluctantly. You shall see," comes Halbarad's voice ere footsteps rise swiftly up the stairs.

My lord looks upon me as he strides across the solar, frowning with concern. I set aside my sewing in the basket that has been my only companion and struggle to pull myself from the mass of covers and furs so I may at least be sitting to receive my visitor. Mistress Nesta has bid me confined to my bed nigh on these past seven days and I must be a poor sight to welcome my lord home.

"Have you come to see the invalid, my lord?"

His face lightens at the vexation in my voice. It seems he is both relieved and amused. This does little to improve my mood. What did they tell him that bade him rush back with such haste?

"Indeed, I have," says he and seats himself upon the edge of the bed.

He smells of frosted earth, damp horse, and wood-smoke, and it comes to me that my lord has come directly from his ranging into the solar. Winter breaks upon the Wild and my lord had just left his house, hoping to make one last journey ere his son was due to be born.

"Were you not well on your way to Sarn Ford, my lord?"

"Aye," he says. "But now I am not." His eyes travel over me from top to toe and I know he catalogues the disorder of my hair, the dull cast to my skin, and the swelling of my hands and face.

"They should not have sent for you, my lord. 'Tis not as bad as afore and I am already improved."

He ignores my protest and presses the back of his hand against my brow. It is a blessed coolness to the dull pounding in my head.

"How is your head, lady?"

"It aches."

"And your hands and feet?"

"My body seems to be of one accord in this matter, my lord."

I hope he is done and I shall again have the peace of the solar in which to hide my reduced state, but he is not, for he removes his hand only to clasp my wrist and feel there for the racing of my blood.

"Have you slept?"

"A little."

"Mayhap you should sleep some more, then," he says, peering carefully at my face.

"I would very much like to oblige you, my lord."

My lord stops in his questions with the barest of smiles. "Are you so miserable?"

A sound of disgust breaks from me and he laughs.

"That I can do somewhat about," he says and releases my wrist to gaze upon me. I see sympathy there, and a curious reluctance.

I do not press him, for 'tis not the first he has had to attend to me, and he had had little he could tell me then.

"I have had no sign the child is in danger," say I and press my open hands to my belly there to feel about.

"Good," he says softly and smiles. "Your_ little fish_ has been busy swimming?" he asks, for so had I taken to calling the child for lack of other name and for the small limbs and hip that rolled beneath the skin of my belly atimes.

"Aye, my lord," I say and, when he straightens, take the hand he offers and, drawing it under the covers, place it firm against where somewhat juts up against my skin.

He scowls a little and moves his thumb across the spot. "You think it his knee, mayhap?" he asks but then I can feel its pressure no more and cannot tell.

"Most like his foot, my lord, for he takes to kicking me with it atimes."

My lord chuckles ere withdrawing his hand and settling the covers more snuggly about me.

He lets loose a breath and pushes himself to standing. "Then we should labor to keep both you and him comfortable. The joints of your hands are far too inflamed, lady, and I doubt not your feet in a similar state. And I have little liking for your pain and sleeplessness."

I must have appeared greatly worried; for my lord's frown clears of a sudden and he makes haste to reassure me.

"Nay, lady," he says, "I shall see to it, but Mistress Nesta advises it best to keep you calm and well rested. I shall return in but a little and then we shall see you more comfortable."

My lord's ranging stride takes him swiftly from the solar. When he returns, it is some time later, and I have lost my grip upon the pleasant mood in which he had left me and suffer my indignities with little patience for want of aught to occupy my thoughts.

He has slung a bit of cloth over his shoulder and bears with him a cup smelling strongly of honey and cowslip wine, an ewer of oil, and a metal bowl smelling of snowmelt. I must have turned a long-suffering look upon him, for my lord smiles as he sets the bowl carefully beside me upon the mattress and lowers the cup to my hands.

"Drink this now and I shall bring you more later should you need it."

I sip at the concoction cautiously. For all its sweetness, I have never been fond of it.

"And I would not have been so long had what I looked for been where I left it." He seats himself upon the bed beside me and pulls the cloth from his shoulder, so he might drop it in the bowl of cold water.

"It is not as you were here to ask, my lord," I say testily and instantly regret it; for my lord's face falls very still.

In the quiet of the solar, he busies himself with wringing out and folding the damp cloth. My lord must have drawn the water fresh from the well and added snow to it, for I can feel its winter chill seeping from the metal bowl at my elbow. He says naught, but his eyes are distant and see only what occupies his hands. Ah! I have wounded him, he who I thought high above the reach of my acidic tongue!

I cannot bear this silence. I touch his arm, and he turns and then gives me a fond look when he sees what I must bear upon my face.

"That was most unjust of me," I say, my voice thickened by my tears, but am silenced by my lord.

"Hush, lady," he says and lays the cloth to my face, pressing it gently to first my cheeks and neck and then, wetting and wringing it out again, laying it upon my brow.

What a great fool am I to his years and depth of wisdom, and intemperate, besides. Chastened, I submit to his attentions, but cannot meet his gaze, nor does he force me.

"Lady, without doubt, you are well and away my most ill-tempered patient thus far," he says mildly.

Despite myself, a laugh bursts from me and spills the tears that threatened so that I weep in the midst of my merriment. He smiles, pleased, it would seem, with having banished my poor mood. I find naught in his gaze but forbearance and the light of humor. Had he borne it, I think I would have kissed him then for the gratitude that welled inside me, but, instead, I must content myself with dashing aside my tears and returning his smile.

"Did not your Rangers warn you, my lord, of the dangers of their wives' tempers when they are with child?"

"Oh, aye," he says and, taking up the ewer of oil, pours a little into the cup of his hand. There he rubs it between his palms, warming his hands and releasing a scent I cannot name into the air of the solar. "Many and oft were the tales told. I am both well forewarned and forearmed."

By the slight quirk of his brow, I know his men have delighted in the telling of their tales, teasing him under the thin disguise of warm counsel, and it greatly amuses my lord. A huff of laughter escapes him when he catches my sour look.

"Think not of it, lady," he says and takes up my hand from where it lies atop the furs. He rubs it between his broad palms, spreading the oil up past my wrist and down to the tips of my fingers ere he kneads my hand with his thumbs. Slow and careful he presses the flesh deep to my bones, moving up each finger and across the palm of my hand.

"I must beg your pardon, my lord, and you so easy to care for during your convalescence."

"Was I?" He smiles and his eyes flash up briefly to mine from where he wraps his hand about my wrist and works his hand up onto my arm. "I seem to remember my wife leaping up a flight of stairs toward me with a basket of laundry."

"You would have run, too, my lord," I insist.

"Mayhap, but I would not have been carrying laundry," he says and, done with one hand, lays it upon the coverlet to take up the other.

"I believe I dropped the laundry at the bottom of the stairs."

"I stand corrected," he says and gives a small laugh, shaking his head wryly. "But you cannot convince me I would have incited Halbarad into defying a command from his chief."

I have no quick retort for that but watch as he studies my hand as he presses his fingers into the meat at the base of my thumb. I think the cowslip, the relief of the cool cloth and my lord's hands upon me beginning to do their work, for my tongue thickens and the lids of my eyes seem a great weight. My lord is much changed from those days, his face now agile in its moods, his limbs strong, his back straight, and his stride long and easy.

"My lord," I say, and his eyes come upon me, curious at the change in mood he sees. "You did not see yourself then."

His look softens with somewhat of both fondness and regret, and the hand that holds my fingers straight so he might attend to my wrist comes to cup my face, his thumb running gently upon my cheek. The scent of the oil is strong on his fingers and calls to mind naught so much the leaves of _athelas_ with which it is infused, but smoke of the beech as it had burned upon our hearth when my lord first kissed me.

And then, for want of will, the tips of my fingers come of themselves to trace the hair upon my lord's lip. Those lips. I have kissed those lips, and for all their grimness of set, they are surprisingly soft.

As ever when I forget myself and touch him, my lord halts my fingers' journey, clasping my hand and pressing a light kiss to their tips ere returning it to the coverlet. There he leaves my hand and lifts the cloth from my brow and takes the cup from where I grasp it to my middle.

He sets the cup and linen upon the table where it joins my basket of sewing. "You should be comfortable, now," he says and leans across me to pick up the bowl of water. "Sleep," he commands gently. "I shall see to the rest and then check on you again in a little while."

With that, he rises. Taking the bowl and cup with him, he lowers the shutter to toss the water out the window. I turn away and close my eyes, burrowing beneath the covers, for there is naught else to do and my head grows heavy. Even now, I begin to drowse amidst the small noises my lord makes setting the cloth and bowl to rights.

Only dimly do I feel the lifting of the covers from my legs and the weight of my lord settling beside them. There he attends to my feet in much the same manner he had my hands. When done, he joins me upon the bed. There his weight settles heavily beside me and, with his hand moving upon my belly, he begins to sing.

For, atimes, in these the final months ere my lord's son was to be born, my head had taken to pounding as were the smith hammering upon the back of my skull, and I had little energy for much more than the barest of care for hearth and hall. These times brought a tight, pinched look to Mistress Nesta's face at her visits and she and my lord spent much time in consultation after. She advised rest, and so, when these times came, I rested, ever mindful of my sister's complaints of pain and weariness ere the end.

But 'twas not enough to settle my lord's mind. He took then to long hours considering the texts of scrolls from deep in his tall chest which I could not read, so ancient was their script. Once satisfied, he urged his kinsman to hunt more meat for our table and poured more water steeped in willow bark for my cup whether I was in pain or not. He then began a practice of leading me to our bed after the even's meal and there he would attend to relieving the ache of swollen hands and feet.

His voice low, he sings in a tongue from a distant time of which I know little more but the simplest of words; the days of the week, the months of the year, and the names one calls those closest of kin. Ever and anon I catch a word that urges a loosening or opening, the flow of rivers and their tributaries, and the swift growth of deep-rooted seeds beneath the spring sun. I know not what my lord attempts, and even he has been unable to say much of it with any specificity, but, once we made a habit of it, my vigor returned and I no longer had much of pain.

Later in the day, I shall hear my lord's step and know he has returned to the solar to stand beside our bed. But I shall be too deep with sleep to move or greet him and he shall spend long moments looking upon me. _Little fish_ that he is swimming in the sea that is his mother's womb, it seems my lord's child more aware of the presence of his father than his mother, for 'tis his small limbs that move and a foot or hip that rolls against my belly ere he falls to his own slumbers again.

~oOo~

I had not thought it could be, with the needs of Eriador and the urgency of his search upon the lands beyond our borders pressing him ever on, but against all foretelling of my heart my lord was at home when his son was born.

I think my lord as anxious for this child to be born as I. He spoke little of it, but, in the last, he traveled no further than the pasture outside our door, and when the chill spring rain chased him indoors, he watched my efforts to move from hearth to pantry with a pained look upon his face. He asked so oft after my health I no longer gave satisfaction to his queries. All was well-planned and I had few fears I had not addressed. And yet when the pains came, they struck me so swiftly they scattered my wits and I knew naught but the smell of straw and blood and the sound of the quiet ringing in my ears when my sister's spasms had ceased.

"Halbarad!" my lord bellowed upon finding me in the buttery short on breath and clutching my belly, and I was swept from my feet. I know not what surprised me more; the suddenness with which the floor disappeared from under me or the fear that sharpened my lord's voice at the sight of my face.

Ere I knew it, Mistress Nesta was hauling herself up the solar stairs with Pelara urging her breathlessly on from behind. There they spread sheets and straw upon the floor and began the long, impatient wait for the child's arrival. They plucked the infant's dresses from my hands, for I had sewn my fingers raw in the unquiet of my mind. They refused my attempts to speak of my fears, for there was naught to be done for it. What would come, would come. They kept me entertained instead with their fussing and gossip.

In Nesta's strong grip I leaned, her belly soft against my back. There Pelara wiped the sweat from my brow and gave me sips of water. Atimes we fell silent and listened to the rain rustling upon the thatch and the sleepy cooing of the doves from their nests in the eaves. When the pains came, the women rocked me gently where we crouched, chanting old words over me.

_"With this belly have thee sheltered thy child, a seed planted deep within thee.  
With these thighs do thee birth thy child, and by thy pains shall thy child live.  
Feel no fear, oh woman of earth made, for hands shall cradle and breast shall give suck.  
But, oh, do not think thy pain o'er, for thy child is of thee made,  
And with thine eyes thou shalt look upon the flower and for its beauty weep." _

Relentless were they and insisted I answer, though, atimes, I had little strength for it.

_"Aye, Yavanna, Queen of all Life.  
Aye, shall I weep, my mother.  
What didst thou feel upon the birthing of the new world?  
And what is my pain to thine?" _

Of the voices below stairs, it was not my lord's but his kin's I heard the most. I knew not his words, for they were muffled by distance and the wood of the floor. But, when we had come at long last to the eve where we were near the end, by the clipped sound of his voice it seemed Halbarad took charge of setting the hall for its visitors and preparing for their arrival. I knew not what occupied my lord, but I knew him there. For, atimes when the hall cleared, Halbarad's voice quieted to a low and soothing murmur.

"Pardon me, my lady," I hear and open my eyes. I rest quickly, for I know it will be for just a little time.

Elesinda stands at the top of the stairs, looking as uncertain as had she been asked to see to the needs of a dragon comfortably curled in its lair.

"What is it, child?" Mistress Pelara asks from the bed. She has taken to putting out the linens and soft wool and dried moss on the table where we shall need them later.

"My lord wished to know should you like some tea and somewhat more to eat."

I stare at the young girl, at a loss for words. It seems I am not alone, for a loud snort from Mistress Nesta behind me speaks for her.

"To keep your strength up, he said, my lady." She twists at her hands in her apron.

I would not have the girl anxious and so take pity on her. "Aye, Elesinda. I would like that."

"A strong broth, should you please, my girl, naught more," says Mistress Nesta behind me, stirring from her seat.

Ah! The woman, I swear, has the touch, for she knows afore I do when the pain shall begin anew._ Ai! I beg thee, Yavanna, this be soon to end! _

"Yes, Mistress," Elesinda says and her head bobs swiftly ere she flees down the stairs.

"And keep the water simmering low!" Mistress Pelara calls after her and comes quickly to me.

"Is that not just like a man," says she, taking a hold of the crook of my arm to lift me to my feet. "Thinks of his belly first."

"Come now, Pelara." Nesta joins her and, for my body's urgency, I scramble to aid them. "'Tis true, she shall have need of her strength." "Up ye go now, my lady," she says, "and we shall have at it again."

I do not know were it my cries that alerted them, for I begged of Pelara a leather strap, so I might bear my teeth down upon it, or that of the child's, but, at the sound, the voices in the hall below us grew very still. They have gathered in the hall, my lord's men, such as they are at the Angle, and the Council. There they come in from the soft even and dry themselves by the hearth, waiting.

"Come away from there," I hear spoken low from the bottom of the stairs.

"Nay, it shall do no harm to ask."

"Leave them be, they shall send –"

"He is healthy?" is the urgent question shouted up at us.

We halt in our preparations, for Nesta dries me with firm and thorough hands and urges me to the bed where I may rest.

"Aye, the child is strong and has as many fingers and toes as you might wish, Ranger Halbarad," Mistress Nesta calls in answer. "Tell our lord his wife is safely delivered. Should he know with what, he must ascertain that for himself so he may be the one to announce it to you. I'll not have it shouted down the stairs."

A moment of quiet whispers and then Halbarad speaks again. "Shall I send him up, then?"

I look to her in alarm. I know not the custom of such things, but I have not had my own chance to truly see the child whose limbs squirm beneath Mistress Pelara's ministrations and whose lungs fill the air with protest for it.

"Nay, Ranger Halbarad, just relay the message should ye be so kind."

"Aye, I will tell him, but it is on your head should he not like it much."

Mistress Nesta's wry face tells of her thoughts on that matter. "True it is, Halbarad is the one so displeased," she says. "And I doubt not our lord stands just behind his kin and can well hear the answer on his own." "In ye go now," say she, tucking the covers about my waist.

"Well, then, my lady," says Mistress Pelara and turns to lay the bundle upon my lap and sit beside me. "What think you, eh?"

Mistress Nesta has come to stand behind the woman and, laying a hand upon her shoulder, leans over it to share her view of the babe.

I think I would laugh for all the promises of beauty, for the child's face is pinched with the effort of birth and rage at the indignities suffered. There the child lays, a warm and living burden upon my legs. But, truly, though the infant's eyes are squinched shut and mouth works in a grimace, I had ne'er seen aught so dear. He squirms in his swaddling, slow to settle and my hands come of themselves to press upon his limbs and bring stillness.

"Hist you there, now," I say. The linen tickles my thumbs where I rub upon his breast and he scowls as were he attempting to make sense of this new thing. Mayhap he decides it pleasant, for, soon, he quiets. And then I know naught else, for he opens his eyes.

Mistress Pelara pats me roughly upon my knee and I startle as were I just awakening. "Breathe there, girl, breathe!"

"Well, then," she says while I gape at her, her look both smug and fond. She rises, releasing Nesta's hand where she had clutched it upon her shoulder, and kisses my brow as were I her daughter, and truly do I feel so at this moment. "You showed them, did you not, my lady."

Mistress Nesta turns to busy herself with gathering up the sheeting from the floor and setting it aside. For I hear my lord's feet upon the stairs, slow and firm they come upon the risers, but then they halt.

"Stay!" comes the command lowly spoken, and then he resumes his climb until he stands upon the edge of the solar and seems unsure of what to do next.

His face is resolute, and I see much of worry and little of joy graven there. Aye, my lord, 'tis not the fruit of the dreams that succored you upon your long and lonely journeys, but I think you have not known such wonder as is this.

"Come, my lord," say I, "shall you not see your son?"

At this he takes in a long breath, his breast heaving as were he emerging from deep waters. "I have a son?"

"Aye, my lord. Come see him."

Solemn is the look he turns upon me when my lord comes to my side and settles upon the bed. The child's curls are thick and damp. His soft rounded belly rolls as he breathes when I unwrap the linen in which he is swaddled. He kicks at the touch and his small wrinkled hands swat and grasp the air. And through all his wide eyes come upon us where we hover closely over him.

I think my lord's hand could engulf all of his son at once. He runs softly questing fingers along the child's belly and then arm until they are captured in the infant's grasp. Little fingers wrap about my lord and a swift smile warms his face.

"He has a good grip," he says.

"Aye, my lord." Such is his delight I shall not tell him all infants' hands are so for the first little while. Even his daughters shall show great promise at this age.

When the child releases him, I bundle his son in the linen again.

"Shall you take him down to the hall now?"

My lord laughs a little, a wry, sorely-tried sound. "Only should you permit me to send my kinsman up here in my stead."

Aye, though I prepare the child for it, when my lord makes to pick his son up from my lap my heart leaps painfully. That I have labored so long to bring this child into the world and so soon he will be taken from me! But, I must let him go. For my lord's son's naming shall be a small, private thing, spoken only between father and child. But the announcement of his arrival is another matter. My lord is to lay his son bare upon the floor at the boundary of hearth and hall, warmed there against the chill night air and the rain that washes the world clean. There his skin shall be awash with fire and its light shall show should he be heir or no. There his father shall rub a bit of earth upon his brow, for he is of Arda bound, as are we all for a little while, and should be welcomed to it. At the sight, the men's voices shall rise to the solar in a joyful hail of good cheer and my lord shall be much congratulated.

"There, my lord, put your hand beneath the child's head when you lift him. You'll not want the poor thing to strain himself more than he has already this day." Mistress Nesta stands at the foot of the bed, holding the wool coverlet I had prepared, a deep blue rich with needlework of stars about its boundaries.

"Fold it here and make sure his fists are well-covered," says Mistress Pelara, her hands busy. "They will work their way out again, no doubt, but keep as much of him covered as you may."

I shall not crane my neck to see o'er my lord's arms where he cradles the child to him. Nor shall I call out instruction to my lord while they wrap the child in the wool and settle him in his father's arms.

"No, my lord, not like that. No, put the babe's head in the crook of your arm, like so. There you are."

"Aye! Aye, I see the way of it," my lord claims, though the Mistresses Nesta and Pelara hover over him.

"He cannot take to shivering and warm himself, my lord," Nesta calls after my lord, following him as he strides from the solar, his steps slow and cautious. "More like, he will turn blue for the cold. So best wrap him up tight again, as soon as can be."

'Twas not til much later, when father and son returned and, both with their bellies full, slept, did I close my eyes and let go the burden of the day. Then did I sleep and woke not when my lord roused.

I have not the foresight of my husband, and know not what he sees, but am aware the world is filled with things not fully within sight or touch of mortal flesh.

I know a thing I should not know. Though I sleep, I know my lord has risen from the bed we share. There he bundled his son and took him to see, for his first, Earendil rising o'er the meadow, and speak words to him no woman knows. And now, to warm him, he cradles our son against him by the flickering hearth below me. His face darkly lit by the flames that dance upon the coals, Halbarad watches from where he lies on the settle.

My lord gazes at the sleeping form in his arms and his brow creases in wonder when the child's fingers flex and his son stretches in his swaddling. With that, my lord caresses the infant's cheek and sets the small mouth to questing for what tickled him. He leans o'er the child and, in the barest of whispers, speaks his son's name to him first of all those who would hear it.

I know the smile that softens my lord's features as the wide, dark eyes of his infant son drink him in. I know, too, when that smile fades.

_"Alas, little one,_" he says, _"that I must bring thee into a world such as this."_

"Upon the morn," my lord says and Halbarad stirs, "send word to the House of Elrond; an heir of Isildur has been born this night."

"What shall I say is his name?"

"Edainion, the son of Men."

With a nod, Halbarad settles again to his mattress, pulling the wool close to his chin and resting his head upon his arm. Yet still he watches with eyes that look on warmly.

My lord then murmurs for the child's ears alone. _"Ónen i-Estel Edain, ú-chebin estel anim,_" he says and, with a touch more tender than I have known, presses a kiss onto his son's soft brow.

~oOo~


	32. Chapter 31

~ Chapter 31 ~

_The further you go, the less easy will it be to withdraw; yet no oath or bond is laid on you to go further than you will. For you do not yet know the strength of your hearts, and you cannot foresee what each may meet upon the road.'_

FOTR: The Ring Goes South

~oOo~

_~ TA 3012, 21__st__ of Narquelië: Observe now, ye peoples the High Days of Aderthad a Egleria when the fall wanes, the herds are ushered to their winter pastures, and those parted reunite. At each shall the house make offering and speak the words of giving of thanks and pleas for mercy. So have our fathers raised their voices. So, too, shall we do, and ne'er forget the evil of Umbar._

~oOo~

I cup the wick with its bright petal of flame in my palm. A mist creeps down the river and throughout the meadows of the lands about my lord's hall, muffling the sounds of nightfall. Indoors, we are comfortable, with the fire to warm us and our beds awaiting our slumbers. By rights, it is my lord's voice that should call the blessing, but in his stead 'tis I who give thanks.

"Thanks we offer to the One for the giving of his gifts," I say. "I name my lord, son of Arathorn, Lord and Chieftain of the Dúnedain, and am blessed for the strength of his will that shelters his people against the Shadow and preserves his life where his foes would claim it."

With a breath the flame gutters and dies, leaving a thin thread of smoke to twist in the air. The hearth glows dimly behind me as I stand between it and the table. My lord's chair stands empty, long shadows playing across its surface in the flickering light of the remaining candles. I had hoped my lord would have returned in time. We see so little of him.

Ah, no, 'tis not the truth, my lord makes the long lonely journey across the Wild to the Angle more oft since his son was born. But his time here was never lengthy, and his son must learn his father anew upon each return.

Aye, the child shall run to my lord's kinsman and squeal with joy should the man speak to him or take him upon his lap. And Halbarad's face lights with joy for it. And, true it is, my lord's son is much fascinated with his father. When e'en an infant, I would wake in our shared bed to find my lord solemnly returning his son's intent look, his finger in the child's fist. When the boy first took to crawling, he would make his way to my lord's table less by knee and hands and more by launching himself across the floor as would a frog. By dint of fistfuls of his father's tunic and breeches, he pulled himself to standing upon unsteady legs. He would strain to see o'er the arm rest of my lord's chair, but then drop to the floor and scramble away should his father turn to him, peering at him from the shadows beneath the table. And when he took to walking, he would cling to my skirts as had he grown there and followed me from hearth to buttery to table, but his eyes never left my lord. Aye, for all the awe in which he holds the man, my lord's son is more like to turn to his kinsman for comfort or in joy than his father, and a heaviness grows in my heart for it.

On this the last night of fall with the harvest well put to bed, Edainion and I lit candles in observance oftheHigh Days, for Halbarad had taken himself upon the Road and was not at home. Alone, after Elesinda left us as the sun set, I lit a flame for each of our small house in thanks for the gift of their time among us. With my lord's son's body heavy on my arm, I lit each taper, speaking the words of thanks-giving. He tucked his small head beneath my chin, plucking absently at my shirt, until I came to calling his name among those to be blessed. He then squirmed, and I kissed the soft hair atop his head.

"Aye, yes, you too, little one," I said, for we had had a difficult day together, he and I, and he quieted.

The day had grown overcast and chill, and I kept my lord's son indoors for it. He liked it not, but I had none to watch him play in the garden or upon the toft, for Elesinda and I were much occupied with preparing the house for the change of season. The winter rugs must be pulled from their chest and beaten of pine shavings and dust. The pantry walls and roof, and barrels and bins must be examined for any holes or signs of damp. Wheels of cheese, smoked meats, dried fruits and roots we packed and hung in the pantry. Herbs we brought from the shed and hung from the eaves of the buttery. We made ready for winter, for though the sun might shine warmly midday, 'tis a fleeting thing and the long cold days would soon be upon us.

At first my lord's son was content to occupy himself with his toys, for, when he was away, Halbarad had taken to carving the boy figures of horses and Rangers and other folk of the Angle and animals of the Wild. There he played with them upon the floor where he would not be underfoot. We ignored his noises and cries. Loud he babbled on, mixing stories I had told him with the life he knew of the Angle. But it did not hold his mind for long and soon he trailed after me and begged for my attention. Surely the day was a sore trial for both of us, for I had not the time to spare and the harder we closed upon his usual time of rest midday, the more ill his temper grew. He was not so used to having his will thwarted, so did Elesinda and Halbarad dote on him.

It was with relief then, upon the ending of the day, his shoulder and head bumped against my arm as I sat in the solar, sewing and waiting for my lord's son to settle himself down. He sat upon the edge of his trundle bed, pulled from beneath the big bed my lord and I shared and covered with blankets of wool and fur to keep him warm, and there kicked at the wooden frame with his heels. Oh, did his lip ever pout forth and his face look much woebegone. After much time, he finally chose to rise and draw off his shoes and tunic. I had been waiting, unwilling to wrestle with a boy well into his fourth year and very capable of doing these things for himself.

"I am ready, _Mamil_," the soft voice said, muffled as it was against my side.

"Very well."

I set down the wool that will be his winter tunic and helped with the untying of his breeches. Soon I had him wrapped in a blanket and upon my lap.

"What wish you to hear?" I asked of the crown of curls lying upon my breast.

He stirred a little, making himself comfortable against me and, I thought, pondering his choices.

"Wish you to hear of my father and the honeybees or mayhap the adventures of Master Maurus upon the bull's pasture?" I asked, but he shook his head.

"Ah, then, shall I tell of your father and the King of the Horse Masters?"

This, on the other hand, was greeted with an eager nod.

"Ah, so it is, then," said I and took a breath to begin.

"We, the folk of the Dúnedain of the North, are a people of much pride. And, indeed, it is a proper pride. Great were our lines of kings, high were our halls, bright were our swords and fierce were our men in battle, and, one day, shall be so again.

"But we are not the only House of Men that walks upon these shores. Far upon the world to the south you shall find a land of broad and fast flowing rivers that tumble down tall red hills ere they carry all afore them to the sea. There the sun is hot and the spring rains are followed the next with a springing of flowers upon the ground as were they are great, brilliantly colored rug. There the children of the forefathers of your kin of the northern clans do live. We know little of them, for long ago were we sundered from them and know them only in names passed from one to another and snatches of songs.

"But you need not travel so far to find men of many Houses. For were you to follow the great South Road, you would come to the high tail of the Misty Mountains. Should you then cross the wide waters of the Isen you would come upon the great Masters of Horses riding upon the plains of Rohan. Tall they are and, unlike your dark curls, bright is their hair as the soft white of beaten flax or the gold of wheat ripened by days of summer sun."

"Like Mistress Linmir?"

I looked down to find my lord's son's eyes upon me.

"No, _onya, _her hair is lighter than most here, but still not so bright as that of the Rohirrim."

The boy gazed upon me with a puzzled frown.

"Never fear, _onya,_ one day you will see them for yourself and know what I mean."

This seemed to satisfy him, and so I went on and his head came to rest against me again.

"Oh, but they laughed at your father's halting attempts at their tongue and sent him on many a fool's errand for his ignorance of their customs when he first came amid them. There they called him not by his own name, but he came to love them and settled in their company. Still, they thought not much of him, setting little account by him for his poor seat upon a horse, or so they claimed. Oh, do not think your father lacking in skill, _onya,_ but 'tis difficult to match the Rohirrim, for they are set upon the high back of a horse even upon their birth and ride so even as they breathe.

"And so, he served among them, riding to their aid and lending a hand to their work, and bore their jests with good humor. Until, one day that dawned bright and clear, word came of unrest upon the Westfold. There the men of Dunland did send raids upon the folk of the open plains and steal their horses. And so Thengel, the King of the Rohirrim, came forth and mustered his best riders to call upon the folk of Dunland and demand either what was theirs or recompense for their loss.

"Your father was not to go, for he was yet deemed unworthy of the task, they knew him so little. But he was amidst those set to guard the encampment and keep it safe for the King's return. And so, when the King was to ride forth, with his banners snapping in the wind and he seated high upon his mount, your father was there. But all was not well, for even as they set out, the King's horse plunged and reared beneath him. They knew it not, but 'twas a hornet that had stung the horse. So distressed was he, the beast seemed desperate to unseat his Rider and plunge the King to the ground.

"Many leaped to the King's aid, for he was much loved and they feared for him. But 'twas only your father who was bold enough to step beneath the hooves of the rearing beast and catch upon his bridle. It was he who soothed the mount and brought him to calmness beneath the seat of the Rohirric King. For your father lay gentle hands upon the horse and spoke to the King's mount with the words of the Elves, that which all good beasts know and allow. For the Elderborn walked this land long ere the fathers of Men awoke under shadowed hills, and it was they who taught all beasts of good will to hearken to their speech. For this some called him Ælfwís, that is Elvenwise in their tongue. The tale then grew in the telling."

No question interrupts my speech and no eyes seek mine to marvel at a tale half understood, for the child was asleep. There is more to the tale. And, indeed, I would wish to teach my lord's son more of his father and his travels.

What little I know, comes most oft in the form of overheard tales told by his men. I know most of his time among the Rohirrim. He speaks fondly of them and will teach me a word or two of their tongue. But when the tale turns to lands further south, where stars are strange and where walk the children of my distant forebears, he has largely remained silent. And should I appear in the hall, a sudden hush falls upon my lord's men when tales turn to my lord's time in the south and Gondor's campaigns against the folk of Umbar and Harad. 'Tis only when I remain quiet and linger out of sight should I chance upon more.

Once did I ask my lord about it. He began the tale and spoke of watching the wheel of stars as it turned o'erhead while laying upon desert plains. He spoke of a carpet of flowers that sprung up overnight with the sudden spring rains upon hills as red as rusted iron. He spoke of rich deltas with a green so bright it seemed the color had been reborn. 'Twas when I asked of the people there, that he spoke for a little of their clothing and customs, and then fell silent. I know not what troubled his heart. But it seemed he was greatly reluctant to disturb where he had buried it deep. Such was his mood after, I have not asked since. For I glimpsed a deep shame to his look when silence fell upon him ere he hid it. Mayhap, one day, he will be ready to tell of it.

And so, I tell my lord's son what little I know, and, for now, it must be enough.

I then left my lord's son to his sleep and returned to the hall, where candles burned low and it was time to end the day.

With a sigh I reach for the next candle and think to form the last blessing in my mind when the flame twists about itself in a sudden cold breeze and the great door to the hall snaps shut.

"Wait," a soft voice commands.

'Tis my lord and my heart lightens to see him. By the gaze that searches about me I know my lord wonders at the whereabouts of his son.

"He is asleep, my lord."

At this, a weight seems to settle upon his shoulders. Wearily my lord eases off his pack and draws away the cloak beneath it. I doubt not he pressed his journey hard to arrive upon this eve.

And so, I wait and, once free of the gear of his ranging, my lord comes to his table where I stand.

"Your House welcomes you home, my lord," say I when he has reached my side. The cold of the swift even trails behind him and raises the hair upon my skin. My lord smiles gently down upon me. He then takes a breath and turns his gaze to the candles I have left burning.

_"Thanks we offer to the One for the giving of his gifts,"_ he says. His hand glows bright about the flame where he shields it against the draft. "I name Halbarad and am blessed for the greatness of his heart."

"I name my son, Edainion, and am blessed for his gentle heart and strong will.

"I name Nienelen and am blessed for the tenderness of her care.

"_Thanks we give to the One for all of our kin here with us, the shelter found in friendly lands, and His grace by which we survived the Days of Lamentation. We beseech thee and beg thee not forget the kin we left behind. Have pity, we pray, and watch o'er them." _

With these words, as we had practiced, he completes the ritual and under his soft breath the flames gutter out.

Glad am I for the sudden fall of dark, for surely I cannot contain the play of joy at my lord's kind words across my face.

~oOo~

"'Tis market day, upon the morrow," I say when we have laid ourselves down on our bed, my voice low so I shall not wake Edainion. "My lord, mayhap in the morning you shall ride with your son into the square upon your gelding."

A soft intake of breath and my lord rolls to his side the better to see me. The faint light catches the gloss of his hair, but his face is in shadow.

"Lady, it is scarcely more than four furlongs distant and the horse is trained for battle, not trotting lightly down a village path," my lord whispers, his voice soft in the night.

"I am sure the beast could use the gentle exercise, my lord, and your son would enjoy the ride."

A long pause and he lies still. I wonder had sleep reclaimed him, but then he speaks.

"Building your fortress, lady?"

"Aye," I say. "Our numbers have grown with new wanderers from the north, my lord."

"So I have heard," comes the acknowledgement and my lord sighs. "Are they provided for?"

"Aye, my lord, as best we can, in all their bodily needs."

He scrubs at his face, the calluses of his hand rasping against his beard.

"You should know, too, your house runs low on rye flour," I say, and he falls still.

"Indeed?"

"And your son is partial to the storyteller. Should you ask for the Tale of the Lord Glorfindel and the Witch-King of Angmar, he would sit upon your lap in rapt attention until the tale is done."

A shift of light upon his cheek and I know my lord smiles. He chuckles gently.

"Very well, it sounds a pleasant enough errand," he says and rolls away from me, the sheets rustling about him as he moves.

"Be sure to wear the long-coat," I say, and his voice comes back to me, muffled by the pillow.

"Long-coat?"

"Aye, my lord, you shall find it in the press."

The bedclothes rustle and I look over to find my lord twisting his head off his pillow. "I have a long-coat in the press?"

"Aye, my lord."

"I do?"

"Yes, my lord." I am nigh busting with laughter and can bare breathe for the effort to contain it.

"How long have I had this long-coat?" He has propped himself up on his arm and I can see the faint lines of a frown and puckered brows.

"Oh, mayhap no more than a fortnight or so."

"And how am I to recognize it, this long-coat?"

"'Tis made of a good dark leather, my lord. The sleeves are lashed to it with thongs, so you might remove them when the weather is warmer."

He grunts softly in reply. For a long moment it seems he is considering this ere he lies back down.

"And have you somewhat in mind that the horse should wear, lady?"

"No, my lord," I say, "but I taught Master Baran to braid his mane in the manner of the Rohirrim, much as I saw in your books. He agreed to see to your horse ere you go."

A snort of laughter bursts from the shadow and my lord struggles to keep his voice low. "Deck me in finery as you will, I shall run your errand, but leave my poor horse be. Now, let me sleep!"

Ah, but they will look a fine sight to see. My lord dressed in his new clothes that dark color of green that sets off the light of his eyes and the black of his hair, tall upon his steed with his young son tucked afore him in the saddle. Overjoyed to be in his father's arms, the child will be bright with delight and squealing with laughter. And all sent on a lowly errand by his lady wife. Ah, yes. It shall lift their hearts and they will be speaking of it for days.

~oOo~


	33. Chapter 32

~ Chapter 32 ~

_It was the pride and wonder of the Northern Line that, though their power departed and their people dwindled, through all the many generations the succession was unbroken from father to son._

LOTR: Appendix A: Annals of the Kings and Rulers

~oOo~

_~ TA 3012, 22__nd__ of Narquelië: 10 acres of pine well managed, first set to the purpose the year of Arathorn II's marriage to the Lady Gilraen, but then all but abandoned after his death. Sufficient for initial construction of the Angle's stakewall, but not for its maintenance. Master Herdir begs service of woodsmen skilled in the climbing of trees to salvage what more we can. _

~oOo~

"How many does that make, Master Herdir?" I follow my lord's reeve as we enter the pasture, and he drags the gate closed behind us.

"Aye, well, my lady," the man says, dropping the rope about the head of the post and squinting up at the sun. His fingers move in a swift dance upon his leg as figures no doubt play out in his head.

"Ten with sign of droppings, one lost to mold for the damage to the roof in that last storm, and three with bad sign of the worm," says he and leans down to pick up the bucket of dye. I have prepared a weak mix of weld for him and the soft fur brush therein knocks against the wood as he walks.

Here we walk upon the field where my flock grazes upon the stubble after the last reaping of our harvest. The soil is uneven from the ploughing and hillocks of rye and droppings confound my feet, and so I must gather up my skirts as I walk, carrying a heavy sack of oats as I am. At our voices the heads of the sheep rise, and they look at us with bland eyes, much too used to our presence to make much note of it. But then I shake the bag and the sound sends slow thoughts whirling about in their heads. They chew ponderously for a little, but then start to mincing across the field toward us. At this we halt and wait for them.

"'Tis not too bad," say I and the man nods, standing beside me. The harvest was not our best, for the spring had been dry and the grain and beans slow to set down roots. But barring too much loss to the chances of the world, it shall be enough.

I shake the heavy bag and the grain within rattles, setting the sheep to bleating and hurrying across the field to us. A wether, bold in his excitement, stretches out his neck and nips at the corner of the cloth. He is joined by others, their warm bodies jostling close to one another and their ears turned upon me, baaing their impatience when I do not allow them their treat.

"Ah, now! Not yet, greedy one!" I say and hold the bag aloft.

I think we have caught the interest of even the stragglers and so we turn about and lead them from the pasture. Then the sheep fall silent, for they know what is to come, should they be patient and follow close.

"Aye, we'll clear the ten granaries of rats and should suffer little for it, I think," says Master Herdir as we go. "The grain lost to the rot? Aye, well, that is gone, true, but we may yet save some of the last three from the infestation of worm."

"Best to check all the roofs, then, think you? 'Twas a strong wind that blew through in the last storm."

"Aye, my lady, we have more thatch drying in Master Baran's barn and I had planned to begin on checking the granaries upon the morrow."

"Will you have enough?"

He shrugs and his hand comes to latch upon the crook of my arm, for I have all but tripped over a stone hidden amidst a tangle of stubble and grass. We have left the pasture behind and lead the eager flock into a small paddock where we might have them in better reach.

"Should be, my lady, but there is always more where it came from," he goes on and releases me as had naught passed.

"Let me know should you need aid gathering more, will you?"

"Aye, my lady."

"And for the beans and lentils, any change?"

"Nay, my lady, none. They are snug and well covered. I accounted for them all just yestermorn, so they are all as they were when last you asked."

"Good!" I smile upon the man where he stands at the paddock gate waiting for the last and eldest of the ewes to make her way inside.

My lord did indeed choose his reeve well. The man has a peerless touch for the weather, and the pride he takes in his work sets him to hovering over the Angle's winter stores as a mother over her sniffling firstborn babe.

"Have you all the aid you need?"

"Aye, my lady, the men you last sent me have proved reliable, for the most part, though first I set one to cleaning out the cesspits."

"I daresay you will get little trouble out of him after that."

Master Herdir grins back at me, a ewe bumping her nose behind the man's knee. Indeed, we do have treats for them today, and they know it. They gather around us, their noses raised and twitching. A full sixty head and more have we now crowded and locked in the paddock, descended from those my lord gifted me upon our marriage.

"All the wethers?" asks Herdir and he circles around the edge of the enclosure where he can leave me among the crowd of wooly backsides.

"Aye, Master Herdir," I say, fumbling with the neck of the sack. The sheep nudge at me and bleat and I must raise my voice over theirs to be heard.

With that, I draw out scoopfuls of grain to keep the sheep near and occupied and Herdir takes up the bucket of weld. There he slaps a thin golden color upon their rumps with the brush. They scramble away from him, but the temptation of the oats is too strong and the fence too near, and thus we keep them in reach. By the small clips in their ears I know the ewes that produced weak lambs or were prone to illness and I point them out for Herdir's brush. Three full-grown rams we shall leave to winter with the ewes, chosen for their heartiness, for as the flock increases I must have breeding males to trade with other flocks for their services, but the rest are fated to supply the Angle's tables this winter.

It comes upon the fall shearing, and we must cull those beasts that shall be slaughtered, and their meat hung to smoke. We have not chaff or hay enough to feed all the good beasts of the Angle, and soon the grass upon the meadows will dry and they shall have naught to eat but what we provide. Come the morrow, Herdir will return with his men and they shall begin the shearing. I shall join them, pulling tags and bits of rye and weeds from the fleece ere I roll them in a coarse cloth. The day after, they shall come again, but for the slaughter. And though I know the pinch of hunger in the depth of winter and am full aware we hold to our beasts' hearts lightly for it, I shall send my lord's son away. One day he will know enough of blood and death, but it need not be so soon.

When the sheep had been marked and I returned to the hall, I found it empty. For I had set Elesinda to gathering the last of the seeds in the gardens of the well-garth. There she shook dry and blown heads of flowers o'er her apron and poured them into small bags of a fine cloth, each tagged with the names of the plants upon strips of parchment.

The day had dawned bright and clear, the mist of the night afore burning swiftly away at the sun's touch. My lord's son woke ere his sires and, wriggling out from beneath his covers in the trundle bed, climbed over the edge of his parents' mattress. 'Twas the sharpness of his knee upon my belly that brought a sudden wakefulness upon me, and there he was, clambering over me to lay himself upon my breast.

He had been slow to wean, my lord's son. I think even now, though he had at last given it up, he longed for the comfort of the beating of my heart beneath his ear and my fingers in his loose curls. For every morn he seeks me out, so he might take to his waking at his leisure. This dawn was like all others. There he lay heavy upon me, sucking lazily upon his fingers and staring at his father as the man slept. I dared not move for wondering what my lord's son would do upon finding his father there. So, instead, I let him puzzle it out for himself and ran a soothing hand upon his back.

My lord lurched in his sleep and, drawing a swift breath, stretched his arms above his head and fell still again.

_"Atto?"_ I heard in Edainion's small voice and the boy reached damp fingers for his father.

My lord's eyes flew open, scowling at first, but his face soon broke into a soft welcoming smile. He caught the hand in his and leaned to press a kiss upon it. "Bid you good morrow, _onya._"

To my surprise and my lord's delight, my son slid off my breast, so he might crawl o'er my arm to his father. There he rested his head upon my lord's shoulder and tucked his back against him.

"Did you sleep well?" My lord wrapped an arm about his son to draw him close.

My son nodded to his father's question, but, I thought, would be slow to answer with words until he was fully awake.

"That is good, for you and I have much to do today." My lord smiled down at the small face tilted up of a sudden to him. "Aye, is not today the day of the market? Would you wish to go with me there?"

The child sat up, drawing away from his father's embrace, his eyes bright and his face alert.

"Can I have apple pasties?" he asked.

"Aye, and should you like to walk there, or shall we ride my gelding?"

My son's eyes grew wide, and it is all I could do to keep from laughing aloud and destroying all hopes my lord had at treating the child with his current solemnity.

"Can I ride your horse?" he asked, his voice soft, so heavy is the wonder on him.

"Should you so wish it."

My son's face shown with joy but then, swiftly, he bit at his lip, seemingly doubtful when his glance found me. I knew his thoughts, for ever Halbarad and I bid him to take care and the gelding is tall of shoulder, sharp of hoof, and trained for war. The child has no thought of fear for himself but is well acquainted with the scolding he might get should he throw away all caution.

"Aye, it is as your father says," I said. "But first you must dress and wash for the day and break your fast."

With no further ado, my son scrambled over my legs, down onto the trundle bed and thence to the floor, pulling off his shirt as he went. There the cloth fell to the floor unheeded and he, naked without it, padded about the solar.

"You will ride with me,_ at'inya_?" he called back to the bed and now I allowed myself to laugh, for joy had set my lord to grinning.

_"Mamil!"_ Edainion cried. "I cannot get my soap!"

The poor thing was straining upon his toes attempting to reach the top of the chest where the pitcher and bowl lay.

"I come, _onya._"

And so I did, followed soon after by my lord. When I came upon him, so delightful was the sight of my lord's son eager to begin his day I could not forbear from wrapping my arms about the warm skin of his middle and pressing kisses and silly words into his neck. Oh, but he squealed with laughter and bounced upon his legs, pushing my face away. But he could not be deterred from his purpose for long, for just as soon as his laughter faded he reached again for the soap and begged for my help.

'Twas not long after they were both washed of their sleep, hair combed, and, to Edainion's dismay at the bitter taste, teeth well rubbed. There my lord stood for inspection, mimicking his son as, with a pass of the comb and tug upon the hem of his tunic, the child had passed and now thumped his feet upon the stairs leading to the hall. Oh, but how fine my lord looked, with his eyes sparkling with his delight and his dark hair arrayed about his shoulders upon the green leather.

"Shall I bring shame upon you by my appearance?" he asked and smiled at my sour look. "I would not have the Angle's sharp tongue's wagging against you."

"_As it please thee_, my lord," said I, for I had no thought to set myself high in his folk's esteem as a purpose in sending him and his son forth and it pricked me he should think it.

My words and downcast eyes earned me the flash of a sharp look, for my lord is not one to miss the subtlety of a contrary intent hidden in soft words.

And now I can only wish I had not sent him off with such shrewishness.

Half a dozen times have I started to the door, determined I shall call upon the youth in Ranger's clothes who paces about the grounds to go search my husband and son out and bring them home. For Elesinda and I prepared the midday meal only to eat it by ourselves. The day stretches behind me and there is no word of them. Surely the market comes to its close and they find little to amuse themselves there.

~oOo~

There they are, my lord leading his horse up the dusty path with his son perched atop. Edainion's fingers twist deeply in the horse's mane as he squeals.

_"Mamil! Mamil!"_ he cries when he catches sight of me. "Look! I ride _a'inya _horse!"

I think every surface of the house well-scrubbed. Linens were taken out and shaken only to be refolded and placed in their chests with sprays of lavender or rosemary. The floor swept. The hearth raked. The buttery and pantry checked over yet again for holes, insect, and mice. The bed aired, and the window rugs beaten. Oh, but it is hard upon the evening meal and the sun dips below the forest upon the west. Long are the shadows through which they ride and long have been the hours of my waiting.

"Aye," I call back to him from the toft to my lord's home. "So I see."

My heart pounds so at the sight I see little of my lord. Rather, my eyes are fixed upon the small child kicking his heels in his excitement so very far from the ground. Had I thought to look elsewhere I might see my lord's gaze intent upon me and their clothes creased and hair wild as had their locks dried without the benefit of a comb.

My lord brings the horse to a halt and hands his reins to Master Baran who waits beside me. When my lord reaches up for his son, the boy's face darkens, and he kicks at the saddle.

"No, I want to stay," he cries, and the great beast turns back his head to eye his distressed rider. I think there is little in the training for battle that could have prepared the horse for quite this, and he seemed a little disconcerted for it, his ears twitching and air bursting from his nostrils in a great snuffling.

"Nay, _onya,_ 'tis time to get down," my lord says. "He needs his rest and would like the saddle off his back." With that the child relents, clinging to his father as he is lifted from the back of the mount.

"Do you hunger, _onya_?" I ask and my lord's son nods.

"Then come," say I, holding out my hand.

"Aye, _Mamil_," he says, and once released he comes close to tug on my fingers.

His face is bright and his voice chatters on as we go indoors and climb the stairs. The meal is ready, and we have but to sit down to it. But first my lord's son must be cleaned of the stains upon his face and fists and his clothes put to rights. He suffers it willingly, for his father, without greeting welcoming him home or queries as to his comfort, proceeds his son into the solar, where he will do the same.

_"Mamil!"_ Edainion says, his voice loud and the words pouring forth from him. "We saw Master Merlan and he told the story of the bad Witch-King. And _a'inya _put me on the horse and I rode it all the way from the river! _A'inya_ got me," here he pauses to laboriously unfold his fingers, "Four!" he cries, holding upon his fingers. "_Atto _got me three apple pasties and I eat them all, but Ruful eat one. He was a bad dog. He pulled it out my hand and it falled in the dirt. _Atto_ said I should not eat it, because it would make me sick. But, then Lothel wanted some, too, and _Atto_ got more so I could share. And it was sticky but Ruful cleaned our hands!"

All this my lord's son says as I kneel afore him and strip him of shoes and tunic, muffling his voice as I tug the cloth over his face. My lord's face is bright with amusement and, I think, more than a little pride, as he pours water into the bowl upon the tall chest there at the end of the bed.

"And why are you so damp, _onya_?" I ask, for indeed he is. Deep in the seams of his clothes he smells of the river.

"Oh," the boy says, the current of his thoughts faltering. "I falled in the water."

"You did?" Of a sudden, my lord falls very still, and I hear little noise of water or cloth in his corner of the solar.

"I walked on the tree, _Mamil_, and then I slipped."

"You were? You did?"

"I was very careful!" he protests, for, no doubt my alarm shows plain upon my face. "_Atto_ falled in the water, too," he goes on, looking up at me hesitantly from beneath his dark lashes, as had he hope this last shall forgive him of the sin of frightening his mother, or, should naught else serve, avert a portion of the blame.

"I am sure he did," say I.

"_Atto_ said 'twas the moss," Edainion says. "It was slippery, was it not, _a'inya_?"

"Aye, _onya, _it was, I think," comes his father's voice above us.

I know not what to say, but stare dumfounded up at my lord where he stands over us, washed and ready for his meal.

"But you were very brave, _onya_." The boy seems nigh to busting for the pride beaming from him at his father's ruffling of his hair.

"Aye, and _Mamil?_" my lord's son says and his face bursts with sudden merriment now he seems to have our approval. "And _Atto_," he gasps, breathless between fits of giggling, and points a wavering hand at his father. "He falled, too, and he say –"

"Aye, _onya!_" my lord says, mayhap a little too loudly and a little too swiftly. "Now it is time to bathe and let your mother get you ready." His father's voice softens some. "Do not linger over your washing too long. I shall see you in the hall."

And with that, my lord strides from the solar, leaving me sitting upon my heels and his son staring bereft after him.

"Come now, _onya._ Let us get you bathed," I say, though slowly do the words come to me.

I have hardly the breath to speak and I think my lord's son knows it, for he stamps his feet, his brow puckering and lips pouting as he pulls at my grip.

"No!" he says, "_Mamil!_ I do not want to bathe!"

"Hist," I say gently, stopping my attempts at removing his shirt and, instead, rub his back, for I know my child is merely over-tired and anxious to see his father. Now my lord has washed his hands and face and combed out his hair, his feet made short work of the flight of stairs into the hall. "Come now, do you not wish to join _Atto_ in his meal? He washed, should not you?"

"Aye, _Mamil,_" he complains, scowling, though he now no longer stomps upon the floor.

"Then let us wash and you shall be ready to go downstairs.

"I will let you do most of it and help to make it go quickly," I go on, when his look remains reluctant.

'Tis truly the sorest trial to have his shirt pulled over his head and his breeches removed, but my lord's son suffers it.

"No, I want the green soap," he protests when I pick up his usual bar of soft, sheep's-milk soap.

_"Then how must thou ask for it?"_ and he screws his face up in a great act of patience.

"Should it please you, _Mamil_."

"Aye, it pleases me," I say, and he bows his head to peer closely at the cloth as I kneel and rub his father's soap upon it. "But, have a care, for it will sting should you get it in your eyes." The scent of bay leaves rises from the cloth and I must smile at my lord's son's intent look. For it does please me my lord's son would wish to be as his father, in most things.

"_Mamil!_ Not so much!"

"There you are," I say, forbearing from lathering the cloth too thickly.

A rime of dried dirt lines his neck and jaw. I think he must have feared to put his head below the water for a more thorough dunking after his first.

"Do my face, _Mamil_," he asks, lifting his chin. _"Should it please thee, Mamil_." I wring out the cloth in the bowl of water beside us and, with care, wipe the soap and dirt from his cheeks and about his eyes.

"There," I say, with a last touch to his nose. "You wipe off the rest and dress, and then you will be ready. I have laid out your clothes."

~oOo~

I must have been very quiet throughout the meal. I can think of no words to say and am glad Edainion's chattering fills the silence. We dine on a soup of sausage, onion, dried herbs and apple from the noon meal we did not have, together with toasts of smoked cheese upon thin slices of a stale bread, for my lord had forgotten the flour for which I had sent him to the market. My lord's son tells of his day and I let the dry bread lay upon the soup, waiting for it to soak up the broth as I listen.

"Elder Tanaes, _Mamil_? He had a big fish." Here the child gestures wildly with his spoon and I must lay my hand upon his arm to guide it back to his bowl, so he does not fling his sausage across the table. He minds it not, but chatters on. "He said it was the biggest fish ever, _Mamil_. Was it the biggest fish ever, _a'inya_?"

His father swallows so he might answer, breaking off a piece of the crust to dip it into his soup. "Mayhap the biggest caught upon the river here. Bigger than ever I have caught upon it."

"'Twas very, very big, _Mamil_." The boy nods eagerly. "_Atto_ held its mouth and it was as tall as me!"

Here my lord smiles and I wonder were it truly of a size. His son slurps loudly at the soup, kicking his feet.

"Aye, a marvel Master Tanaes should have pulled it from the river, alone as he was and with a fish so heavy as a big lad such as you," my lord goes on, looking upon his son fondly.

Edainion giggles around his mouthful, delighted as he is at the attention. But my lord falls silent, his laughter falling from him quickly when he catches sight of my face. Aye, mayhap this moment is not one in which he would be wise to compare my son to a fish.

_Ai!_ But this meal is a trial to my patience.

As the tale unfolds, it seems my lord and his son wandered the square and purchased their noon meal from the strolling vendors. A roasted leg of chicken and a pie of chopped meats and beans they found, and the sweet pasties were purchased as the meal's end. There they called on the folk of the Angle and my son's father took him to speak to cotter and baker and goodwife.

But still their day was not done, for after my son had napped in the shade of the carpenter's stall while his father listened to the tales of the Angle from the man, they took to riding upon the shaded groves and deep paths that wind about the river. There my son learned of the small beasts of the forest and the tracks they make.

All in all, the venture had been more a matter of success than I could have hoped. For my lord's son lost his reserve around his father and my lord claimed new confidence in the care of his son.

'Tis not until we are done with the meal and I take our bowls to the buttery that my lord speaks to me. He, too, had sat through much of the meal in silence, though, atimes, had looked upon me as had he wished to catch my eye. But I would have none of it. And so he waited until we were out of hearing of our son. He left him there in the hall, following me into the buttery.

"Edainion," I heard his voice call through the door. "_Come put away thy men. I should not want to step upon one, for surely my boot would break it."_

I hear not the child's protest, though oft he resists the task, preferring instead to leave his carved toys lying about so he may play with them at will. In its place I hear the scrape of wood upon stone and know my lord's son leaps to do his father's bidding.

I scrape the bowls clean and through my lord's opening of the door I see Elesinda helps, they both kneeling about the hearth.

"Truly, lady, I had not intended to be so long gone," my lord says, his voice low.

I stack the bowls so Elesinda may wash them and, finding the lid, clap it over the bucket of waste scraps. I turn and lean back against the shelf to better see my lord. The light of the setting sun falls upon him and, though his look is solemn, it holds naught of penitence.

"But then my son fell in the river," I say, and, from his sudden grimace, it seems his father was not long after. I wonder then had he plunged in after the child of his own intent or of an accident.

"Aye, well, in truth, lady," he says, "it was not the river, more a stream leading off from it. 'Twould all have been put easily aright had not the clothes taken long in drying." And it is only now my lord has the grace to look abashed.

True it is, for all the dirt and creases they bear, I shall be much put to it to make them fit to be worn again. But I care naught for them and I choke on his concern.

"My lord, I trust the danger in which his father placed my son –" and here I bite off my words. My jaw hurts and I reach up to rub against the bone.

"Aye," he finishes for me when I cannot, "— served to teach him to be more cautious. Be assured, lady, it did."

"My lord," I say, my voice slow and nigh as heavy as my heart. "I rejoice you find joy in your son. I could wish for naught better. He is yours and must be yours, body and mind and heart. One day I must endure his leave-taking and know he faces perils from which I cannot protect him, and my heart shall break for it. Did not your own lady mother suffer so? But, I pray you, do not give me cause to suffer needlessly ere it is my time."

At that, my lord falls silent. I cannot read the thoughts upon his face, but then he lifts my hand from where my arms are folded across my breast. And, with his thumb rubbing gently upon the bones of my knuckles, bows low over it ere pressing his lips there.

~oOo~


	34. Chapter 33

~ Chapter 33 ~

_As he ran the cries came louder, but fainter now and desperately the horn was blowing. Fierce and shrill rose the yells of the Orcs, and suddenly the horn-calls ceased. Aragorn raced down the last slope, but afore he could reach the hill's foot, the sounds died away; and as he turned to the left and ran towards them they retreated, until at last he could hear them no more. Drawing his bright sword and crying __Elendil! Elendil!__ he crashed through the trees._

TTT: The Departure of Boromir

~oOo~

_~ TA 3012, 13__th__ of Hísimë: Ranger Gelir now of rank and joins the rotation of paired Rangers in their duties. Ranger Halbarad to accede the training of the men of the Angle to Ranger Haldren. All folk of the Angle who have answered the muster to meet him upon Master Fimon's northern pasture for training, upon their day of rest. Should Haldren have noted the women who have joined their ranks, he says naught. Last I saw, he took one about the neck and, kicking her feet from beneath her, threw her to the fallow dirt and screamed at her to arise. And when she had, her face grim and determined, he but did it again and urged her to greater speed. And when the men about them laughed for it, he did it each in quick succession to them, as well, until there were none standing about him. There was little laughter after._

_As does the Angle prepare, so do our lord's men. Ranger Halbarad and my lord's men have taken to wearing their padded shirts and great hauberks at all times. He now moves as easily beneath their weight as were he wearing naught but a simple shirt and vest. Upon their return, __Halbarad sets them atimes to galloping in great lines so that the earth thunders beneath their horses' hooves. They prepare for open war as had not had the need afore. Halbarad is poorly satisfied, for they are fewer in number than he would wish and return to the Angle but seldom._

~oOo~

Footsteps and voices drift from the hall below me. I sigh and bury my face in the pillow, pulling it closer.

"My lady!" a voice calls, but still I am adrift in sleep, sunk beneath its warm blanket. Beyond the windows, rain falls in a steady patter and the cold night air seeks to slip through the shutters and winter rugs. My lord's son stirs in his sleep upon his small mattress and then falls still.

"My lady!" comes the voice again. This time I hear it for what it is.

I thrust aside the covers. Suddenly, I am sitting upon the edge of the mattress, with my feet planted in the trundle bed, my heart pounding as I blink myself awake. No moon for the clouds that cover its face and it seems I can see as much with eyes closed as open.

"My lady!" the voice calls and I recognize it as Halbarad's.

In my mind, I can see him lingering on the steps, unwilling to enter the solar where his lord's wife sleeps, but in great need to wake her.

_"Mamil__?_" comes a querulous cry from the bed.

"Hush, _onya_, 'tis naught," I whisper but Halbarad still calls and my lord's son whimpers.

"I come!" I call and lord's kinsman's voice stills.

"_Mamil!_" Edainion calls, his voice rising. Small hands brush my legs, and he grabs at my shift and pulls himself to me and into my lap.

"Hist, _onya_," I say and scoop him up. I hold him close for but a moment and then lay him back abed. "You must sleep," I say firmly when he clings to me and protests. "I will be gone but a little while, but you must sleep."

"Lady Nienelen! Make haste!" Halbarad calls urgently, his voice a carrying whisper now that my lord's son's voice has been heard.

At the rustling of the linens I know my lord's son has lain down, but sure it is he will watch at the dark with wide eyes ere sleep claims him and it grieves me to leave him so. But I am on my feet, my mouth dry as I pat at the chest in the dark. I send a quick prayer into the night as I throw aside all but what I need.

_May the Valar watch over my lord with the same care he does his people. _

"_Ai!_" I exclaim as cloth slips onto the floor. It seems my hands can do naught that I wish. I shake my head to clear it of sleep. What does it matter? Should my lord have need of me, what matter what I wear?

_May he be sustained even as he has kept us. _

"Is it my lord?" I call, keeping my voice low, and grab at bundle of cloth. My fingers fumble to find the hem.

"He requires your aid, my lady. Hurry!"

"Go to him! I come." I throw the dress over my head.

I race down the stairs in my bare feet, pulling at laces as I go. When I enter the hall, men in the rusty greens and greys of the Rangers mill about the room with a silent purpose. They build up the fire and draw water to heat over the hearth. They are sodden with rain, yet even it does not wash away all signs of blood and battle. I search amidst them for one dark head among many, one grey cloak amidst a forest. When I find him, my heart gives a thump as had it just learned anew how to beat.

The injured have been seated closest to the fire, where their comrades tend to them. One most gravely wounded has been stretched upon the bench. There, my lord bends o'er him. He peels back clothing and rags with which they have staunched the bleeding and I see the arrow protruding from his man's shoulder, an obscene thing of black and broken edges against his skin.

"Aye, 'tis against the bone" he says. "We cannot push it through."

"My lord," I say, my voice barely stronger than a whisper for the twin shock of both relief and fear. My feet stand in a puddle of water and are cold, but it is a distant thing. "You called, and I am come."

His face hovers anxiously over the man, but he spares me a brief glance.

"We have need of clean sheets or rags, whatever comes to hand," he says.

I nod, though he has returned to his charge and pays me no more heed. Into the parlor I hurry, the men parting about me. When I return, the room is still. Left behind are those who tend and those who are tended. They spread their cloaks to dry afore the building flames and rest, seated in groups and speaking a little among themselves.

A knife lies in the coals and my lord speaks to his charge in a low voice and, coming upon them, I see his face. My heart sinks. 'Tis Gelir, his round, merry face marred by battle and pain. I could not bear his mother's eyes upon me should he fail. These few years have made him a man full grown, but still he is her son and she waits upon him with her mother's heart.

I have ripped sheets asunder and give them to hands that reach for them. The last I save for my lord, who takes them from me with a distant nod of thanks; for they have a hold of his man's arms and Halbarad prepares to lie across his legs. I can think only of the birthing of my son and the pain it had taken to bring him into this world. This pain may not be so kind in what it brings.

Running across the room, I grab up a shuttle from its basket beside the loom, a bit of yarn still wound about it and rush back to the bench. When I kneel at Gelir's head, I see he is quiet, but his eyes find me and the fear in them pours through me like a shock of cold water.

"'Tis but a short while you will feel pain," say I in his ear, "but then you will mend. I will be here. Can you bear it?"

"Aye, my lady," he says. When he sees what I hold, he nods his head, clamping down on the wood when I offer it.

They hold him fast when they force blades into the wound about the barbs to draw it out, though he arches against them, coughing and screaming and clenching his jaw against the shuttle. It will bear the marks of his teeth even through the wool. I hold his face between my hands and whisper what few words of encouragement I can find. But, soon, he falls limp and his eyes close, his body more merciful than those who care for him can be. And then it is done.

With one hand, my lord presses the cloth onto the wound and, with the other, turns the arrow in the light. I do not know what he looks for, but soon his brow softens, and he tosses it into the fire.

"I think it not poisoned." My lord draws in a long breath, the set of his shoulders softening.

"Hold this." He nods at the bundle of cloth beneath his hand. Halbarad is quick to comply, kneeling beside the bench.

I have stood, the shuttle dangling from my fingers. My lord's charge lies still beneath Halbarad's hand. His skin is pale and reflects a thin sheen of light from the fire, but he lives and draws shallow breath.

"Lady," my lord says, and I come to myself. "Would you prepare the parlor? He should have quiet and a soft place to rest."

"Aye, my lord," I say, and leave him to their care, dropping the shuttle among its mates as I go.

~oOo~

A narrow pallet upon the floor is all I can offer, but it will do. I open baskets and from their depths pull sheets and blankets to cover it. Here I have been saving them for those who flee to the Angle, to warm them in their first nights among us, but now the need of the injured is the more urgent.

After the hall, the parlor with its low ceiling, closed shutters and ranks of baskets and chests feels an almost lonely and dim place. I had thought the worst over, until my stomach rebels and my hands shake as I toss the blanket onto the pallet. The stink of seared flesh burns vividly in my mind, for they had brought the knife to his wound while I prepared Gelir's bed. My legs seem to be made of water and I think, soon, they will not hold me upright.

A stool sits only a couple strides away against the wall, but even so may be too far. For a mist floats upon all I see. I cling to the wall and attempt to bring my unwilling legs under my control. But ere I either fall or achieve a more stable seat on my own, an arm clutches me about my middle and pulls my back into a damp breast. 'Tis my lord who guides me to the seat I had intended and lowers me gently upon it.

There he leaves me to hold my face in my hands, my elbows propped upon my knees, but he does not go far. My skin, once cold, is now flushed and warm.

"Halbarad!" he calls. When the heavy tread of his kin approaches, he commands softly, "Water for my lady."

He pulls another stool close to where I sit and settles there. Though he sits so near his arm brushes mine, he says naught. I know he watches me. He smells faintly of the herb garden behind my father's house, as had plants of thyme, hoarwell, and lavender turned their nodding heads to the hot sun and the bees worked busily among their flowers. It clears my head and calms my mind, and by this I know he has laved the injured man's wounds in a tea of _athelas_ and carries the scent about him.

"Forgive me, my lord," I say and wipe at my eyes. The tears had come unbidden, but he does not shame me for them. "You must forgive my weakness."

"Nay, I know you too well to accept such a thing. You are not weak." He brushes my hair aside from my face, the better to see it.

When I am silent he speaks, his voice low. "What has made you unhappy, lady?"

Slowly, I collect my scattered thoughts, from small clutching hands to terror in a man's eyes.

"Each of your men is a mother's son, my lord," I say when my thoughts become clear, "I cannot help but see our own in them. They must bear the brunt of the force sent against us. And he must pay the cost of it, too, no matter it may be for naught."

He has drawn a quick breath as had he a ready reassurance to give, but then he grows silent and I know he now sees the same as I.

"What would you have me say, lady? So it is with us all," he says at length. "In truth, though greatly have I rued his loss o'er the years, mayhap it was better my own father was spared this. For I cannot give you the tally of my heart should I live to see my son pay it."

I shake my head. There is naught to say. He has no answer to give me. Neither have I one for him.

When Halbarad enters, he finds us sitting next to one another, silent. His face is anxious, searching mine for signs of ill-health and then his lord's for what has passed. For my lord's hand had found mine as he spoke and he yet clasps it in his. He gives his kin a brief reassuring smile and takes the cup from Halbarad, saying naught. It seems a needless thing, but the water is cool and sweet. I drink it in one swallow and feel better. When my lord takes the cup from me and sets it upon the floor, we are alone. Though in no hurry to return to his men, his thoughts seem to have turned inward, and his look is troubled.

"What happened, my lord?"

His look comes upon me sharply. I seldom ask but leave his doings to his own thoughts until he would have me know them. He stretches his legs out afore him and leans back against the wall. He appears to be considering what to say.

"Orcs out of the Troll Shaws," he says. "We think them scouts."

"So close!" I am now sitting straight and staring at him, alarmed. This has not happened even in my father's lifetime. I marvel at the change.

"I have sent those who are willing to discover their movements. Haldren has left to muster more men," he says. "Then, in the morning, we ride north to meet them."

"Will you have a great enough force at so short a notice?" In my mind, I am already calculating the bandages needed, the poultices to be prepared, and the graves to dig.

"I believe so. It will need to suffice," he says. "I leave you here, lady, with the charge to order the people in the morning."

His words jar me from my planning. He is looking at me intently, as had he another test in mind.

Solemnly, he says, "They must be made ready, should we fail."

I nod. May the Valar forbid! But it will be done. I seem to have passed the test, for my lord's face softens and he reaches a thumb to smooth away the frown that knots my brow.

"Worry not overmuch, lady. I leave Halbarad with you. He is to lead the rearguard upon the north edge of the Angle."

It is meant to reassure, and I do fret for the people of the Angle, but his words do little to allay my fears for those who defend us.

"I would rather he go with you, my lord," I say, and he frowns.

"Why?" he asks. "I thought you and he had resolved your quarrels long ago. Are not you and he of the same mind?"

"Aye, my lord, ever your thoughts drive us to the same end."

At the wry tone of my voice he lets out a softly amused sound, but a twist of his mouth speaks of his satisfaction. His eyes glitter.

"Then you think little of my skills in battle and wish to send your Great Hound to guard me?"

_"Skill is little defense against the arrows of the orc, my lord," _I say testily, slipping into the Sindar tongue.

He answers me in kind, though his lips quirk at my pique._ "Little could my kinsman do to stay its flight that I cannot."_

I sigh and turn away. Why waste my breath? 'Tis little wonder it took the Elders fifty years, the loss of his mother, and a mortal wound to convince this man to marry. He is impossible once his mind is set. Now I have only to marvel he submitted to their will at all.

"Am I to suppose you had a reason for finding me, my lord, or did you seek me out only so as to vex me?"

He laughs and crosses his legs at his boots, looking for all as were he sitting under the sun during the summer beneath some great tree and had not a care. "Solely to vex you, it seems, though I had intended to ask you for blankets for the men who will rest here tonight."

I nod, smoothing my hair from my face, my plait a wild rope from sleep. With my palms, I wipe at my eyes to banish all signs of my tears. I will bring none of my own travails to those who sleep about my hearth.

"Have you some?" he asks as he watches my preparations. "They have their own, though they are in need of drying."

I frown and shake my head as I rise. My lord lives in a house with a worker of wool and yet asks should there be blankets. "Never fear, my lord," I say, "I will find dry blankets enough for your men."

I look about the room, satisfied with what I see. "And should they bring Gelir in here, I will watch him tonight."

"Are you quite recovered, lady?" He has lifted his back from the wall and grasped my fingers to prevent me from stepping away from him, and now peers at me.

"Aye, my lord." I squeeze his finger in return, grateful for his concern. "It was a passing weakness. I am well."

I pull my fingers from his to touch his arm below the slash of some sharp edge where it has torn both leather and skin. "Do you wish my aid in attending to this?"

"Nay, lady, it is easy enough to tend and you have done enough. Worry not."

"Leave your coat and shirt ere you go up the stairs, then, and I will mend them for you. Your other shirt and winter cloak are with the mending in the solar. I will lay your coat near the hearth, where it can dry when done," I say, trailing a finger along the jagged edge.

He makes a small noise of acknowledgement, neither accepting or rejecting my offer, but does not yet rise from the stool.

There was a time, when I might have thought I could gentle away the weariness that settles now upon his features. But though my heart aches for the grim shadow that falls upon my lord's gaze, I must suffer it. I withdraw my hand, for I would not prod at the beast that lies slumbering within my breast.

"An I must be wakeful, my lord, it would do to have occupation," I say and move away to collect the bedding his men require.

He nods and then speaks. "Gelir should not be moved, until it cannot be helped."

"Aye." I open a lid of a long chest to stare into its depths. Small sacks of pine shavings lie amidst the carefully folded lengths of woolen cloth. Setting them aside, I select blankets for their thickest nap and softest hand.

When I turn to toss them upon the pallet, I am surprised to see my lord still seated upon his stool. His look is withdrawn and apprehensive.

"My lord," I say, and, blinking, he surfaces from his thoughts. "I have slept some this night where you have not. I will see to what needs to be done until the morning. To bed!"

He lifts himself from the stool with a long indrawn breath.

"Wake me, should he worsen," my lord says ere he closes the door behind him.

~oOo~

Long ere the men of the Council were roused from their beds and called to his table, long ere e'en the sun had thought to rise above the wooded lands about the rivers, I found my lord lying upon his bed in the solar. His winter cloak drawn about him and his boots at its foot, he lay atop the blankets, looking as had he lain himself down in the field so he would be ready to rise at a simple word, all but for one thing. In the crook of his arm was curled his son. The fine dark curls drifted across my lord's shoulder where he had pulled the small boy into his side and wrapped his cloak about him. I knew not which took more comfort in the other as they slept and was loath to wake either.

But, wake my lord I must, for Halbarad had returned and his men awaited him in the hall. His eyes flew open at my touch and needed no time to know what I intended. There, in the rushlight, he gentled his arm and cloak from beneath his murmuring son and drew a fur over the boy, sifting through the dark curls with his fingers ere leaving him there.

The water is chill where I pour it to the bowl atop the tall chest and a blessing to my weary eyes when I press the cloth to them. My lord's son lies curled deeply in the covers with naught but his hair and brow showing as he were some small creatures burrowed there. The sight made me wish for my bed, but would my lord not spare himself, then neither shall I.

A weary sigh escapes from him as he lifts the lid to the chest at the foot of the bed. I halt, the cloth pressed to my face and the water falling in slow drops to the basin below, for I wonder what my lord shall make of what he is sure to find there. By his silence, I know he stares into the depths of the chest, his brow furrowed. I know, too, what waits for him, folded carefully atop his things.

There it is, a wool tunic overdyed in the dark blue of the woad I brewed when first I learned of my lord's need for a wife and heir. In his absence, I labored to lay in the stars of the Dúnedain in thread about the sleeves, upon the hem, and all about the collar and breast. Mayhap my lord then laughs silently at his wife's designs upon his House, for he pauses for a moment. This, for the rustling of soft cloth, he then sets aside, but still I wait, for I know the fine cloth is unfit for the work at hand and there is yet more for my lord to discover.

Next, he shall find a pile of wool no less thick and sturdy than the formal tunic, but more plain of color and devoid of all but the simplest of trimming of matching leather and line of crosswork in thread. But when his fingers brush upon the fur that lines the inside, surely then my lord's eyes light with pleasure. Shaking out its folds, he makes short work of pulling on the long, sleeveless garment, tying it closed and pulling on the laces to fit it warm about his waist. He then stretches his arms to check the fit, settling it upon his shoulders, ere wrapping his belt about him. The wool is a deep rust and the fur inside a patchwork of the tans and greys of the hares that have fed his household over the past years. A simple enough garment, less fine than aught else I have made him, but more warm.

Only then did it come to me that I have made precious little progress in my morning toilet and so swiftly rinse out the rag and blot at my face with the linen. I suppose I should have given up all but the barest pretense, for my lord's hands find my waist, putting it all to a halt. He presses what would have been a kiss onto my cheek were he not smiling so broadly.

"Shall I take it as my gift in farewell, lady?"

I turn to find his eyes bright upon me. I think my lord has grown accustomed to his comforts and now took easy delight in them. Many weeks of work went into the making of the vest he wears. Many nights I sat in the solar and squinted by the light of a single candle to lay in the leather trim, but, in sooth, I would have worn red grooves upon all my fingertips to force the needle through hide and wool should only my lord smile upon me as he did.

"Should you so choose, my lord."

He releases me to draw on his long-coat and pick up his winter cloak where I had laid them upon the bed. I think, then, he shall stride from the solar, taking his leave. But, instead, he stands for a long moment, marveling o'er the sight that is his son sleeping peacefully, without worry or care, so deeply does the child slumber and such comfort does he make of the pillow and covers my lord left behind. Then he does leave, but not ere brushing his fingers through those dark curls one last time and pressing his lips to that soft brow.

In the hall, we find his men. When they heard his feet upon the stairs, they leaned to packs upon the floor and rose to their feet, slinging their burdens to their back and placing a reassuring hand upon their weapons when we enter. My lord takes them in in a swift glance and nods to Halbarad, who stands with the elders of their numbers about him at my lord's table. All is ready. My lord halts and, turning about, it seems he is surprised to find me still behind him.

"Ah, lady, mayhap we shall say our farewells, then."

The hall is quiet, well-schooled as his men are in a grim obedience to their lord's will. But they watch, I doubt it not. I bow my head to acknowledge his command, but do not yet speak my blessing. Instead, I raise my hand for his.

"I have little to give you that would serve you well in your task ahead, my lord, but this I have."

His frown is mild and his gaze searching, but I mind them not.

"Come, my lord."

Though his men await him, standing as a thicket of strong trunks of oak, my lord grants me his hand and I lead him through their ranks to the parlor. There, we slip through the door and watch Gelir as he sleeps. I had left him, Mistress Pelara's son, but a few moments afore and knew it was a gentle slumber that closed the young man's eyes. My lord pulls from my hand and kneels at his man's side, brushing fingers upon the Ranger's brow. Though his skin is pale, he is warm and dry to the touch and the grim lines of my lord's face ease at the sight.

With a sigh, my lord rises from the floor. The look he turns upon me is fond, and, at the foot of the pallet, he lifts my hand to his lips.

"_My thanks to thee_, lady, I can think of no gift I would rather have in farewell," says he softly ere pressing his lips to my fingers.

"_Go with the grace of the Valar, my lord,_" I say. _"May they watch over thee and thy men. May they lend their strength to thy arm and their wisdom to thy sight. May thee and thy men return safely to us."_

To seal my blessing, I press my lips to his cheek, and he leans into the kiss, clasping my fingers tightly to his breast.

~oOo~


	35. Chapter 34

~ Chapter 34 ~

'_That is the road to the vales of Tumladen and Lossarnach, and the mountain-villages, and then on to Lebennin,' said Beregond. 'There go the last of the wains that bear away to refuge the aged__,__ the children, and the women that must go with them. They must all be gone from the Gate and the road clear for a league afore noon: that was the order. It is a sad necessity.' He sighed. 'Few, maybe, of those now sundered will meet again.'_

ROTK: Minas Tirith

~oOo~

_~ TA 3012, 21__st__ of Hísimë: For want of the iron and other metals from outside the Angle, the House begs the Angles' assistance. Of each fire is expected tithe of implements of iron or other such hard metal of no less than 4 marks in weight owed to the House. This tithe to occur within the next seven days and will replace equal weight of that in owed in grain. In return, the Angle's smiths, Masters Mahtan and Camaenor, to alter or reforged into spearheads, arrowheads, pikes, and knives as they are able. Weapons to be distributed to the folk of the muster._

~oOo~

Ah, I daresay you have not felt such a tiresome wearing of the hours.

The people of the Angle, aged and young, landed and cotter, stretch and rise from the soil upon the day's grey dawning. A coughing has awakened me, and I can hear the folk from within the small nest of baskets and blankets where have curled my lord's son and I. Loath am I to move, for the wisps of dreams trail upon my thoughts and I would yet clutch at them.

Most oft, in this place, I have come to dream of smoke and a smothering heat I cannot escape. Unkind hands clutch at me and hold me tight, though 'tis my own terror that freezes my limbs so I cannot move. But, this morn, the dreams that kept me company were more pleasant. For, in them, ere the sun rose, soft came my lord's voice in my ear as I had not heard since the birth of our son. There, in my dreams, he begged me to awaken as his arm wrapped about me and drew my back tight against his breast. There, I was warm, secured within the strength of his arms, and sure had but to answer and would then feel his hands and lips upon me.

Ah, but the folk press ever around and there is no place of quiet and rest. All about is damp and chill, and the sheep and cattle protest the lack of pasture from their paddocks. For it had rained in the night, great black-bellied clouds drifting above us as the barges upon the Tithecelonere travel ceased from the north.

No more than a hectare of land were we allowed within those wooden walls and that overrun with both Man and beast. Poor shelter had we in the night and huddled against the earthen foot of the palisades. There we strung lines of cloth from the walk while our men strode above our heads and drew their cloaks and hoods closely about them, squinting against the rain and wind and keeping their bows and slings near to hand.

Ah, I ache, and my head feels full of wool.

"Awake, _onya_," say I and, shaking gently at Edainion's hip, rouse him enough to reclaim my arm. It is as alive as a block of wood and I work my fist against the numbness.

My lord's son rises to sitting and looks about him blearily at the dim space in which we have slept. The pounding of feet sound above us as the men, cold and spent from their night of wakefulness, change places with their fellows.

"_Mamil_," says he, his small face wretched and his shoulders fallen. "I want to go home. _May it please thee_, _Mamil_, may we go home now?"

"_Ai, onya._"

For the eyes that turn upon me and the weary tears glimmering within them, I draw him against me. There he melts into my side and I wipe at the damp curls upon his brow. His small fingers cling to my dress and I do not wish to beg their release, but steps quickly approach and a shadow falls upon the thin line of light beneath the wool that hangs afore us.

"Lady Nienelen!"

_Ai!_ Had I my choice, I would stay in this small space, just my lord's son and I. Here we might be close and warm, and I would tell him stories of my father and the stone he gifted my sister when I was very young. For it had sparkled with a light that seemed to come from the very stars, and so had gone the tale he told me of it. Or should he not have the patience, mayhap he would teach me the games that liven his mind and set his eyes to twinkling nigh so bright as my father's stone.

"I come!" I call to the boots that show beneath the cloth of our shelter. It is Mistress Nesta, and by the swiftly shifting shadow, she paces impatiently.

"Up, _onya_." I push at our blankets and nudge my lord's son away.

"_Mamil!_" he protests, clinging to me, and I think he may go to weeping.

"Hist now,_ onya,_" I croon. "'Tis not a thing that can be helped. Get you up and I will find you somewhat to eat. Do you not hunger?"

He shakes his head, scowling darkly. I think he would deny that he needed as simple a thing as air to breathe at such a moment, but at least he allows me to raise him to his feet.

"Mayhap not now, but soon you shall be and, natheless, we must begin the day."

When I rise, he does not go forth as he was wont to do but leans upon my leg while I brush at my skirts and attempt to wind my scarf more securely about my hair.

For the winter storms that blow up against the mountains, the feet of our folk have churned the grass into a muddy soup and I no longer look the part of the Lady. My skirts and the hem of my cloak are covered in filth a hands-breadth deep and more and I despair of e'er drying out the thick leather of my boots. Ah, but I am soft and deserve not the regard of my husband. For my lord and his men live in this manner from one season upon another and think naught for it. What I would not give for a bucket of clean water and a cloth, no matter how cold it might be. _Ai!_ And all I have I would give for a mere palmful of powder for my teeth. They feel as were they covered in a foul film and I doubt not my breath is rank. And it has been little more than a handful of days that we have lain waiting in this fortress of wood and earth. We await either news from the north or, in its lack, the sudden running of uncanny shapes in our woods.

I set my lord's son's clothing tight about him so that he might be warm and then fling aside the sodden hanging to the sight of sun and folk milling about. The folk who have answered the muster call out the changing of the guard and their kin build up the fires, so they might begin yet another day behind the pale. It is as the market square at the noon meal when nigh all the Dúnedain of the North are gathered there.

Upon my one side, Master Tanril with his vest of boiled leather and long knives squats to warm himself by the fire while his wife Dehlia pours him what little of ale we brought with us. And upon the other, Master Bachor says his morning farewells to his sister's infant son so he might take Tanril's place upon the palisade. He has taken the boy up in his arms and, at the child's smile, his eyes light warmly upon him. Her two other sons, one a youth no more than seven and another several years younger tussle over somewhat the elder holds. I cannot tell what, for their voices are muffled by their efforts and the cloth of the others' coats. Behind them stands Einiond, Bachor's brother, elder by some years, but, for the harm he took at his birth, of a younger mind. His tightly curled hair in thin braids close upon his scalp, he shrugs his head between his shoulders in effort to keep warm. He shifts upon his feet and flicks brightly colored beads upon the thong that hangs from his belt, out of his depth in the press of folk and restless for it. Bachor's sister, Mistress Matilde, is there with them, and he smiles upon her fondly ere letting her son alight to the ground.

"Leave off now," Matilde calls to her sons and they halt, the younger giving a final push at his brother, "else you both shall end up with naught." With this, she slips behind the flap of cloth to answer the sound of soft coughing and call of her name.

"Come Einiond," Bachor calls. "Give me your farewell, eh?"

The man's face warms though his eyes and fingers ne'er leave off with their study of the beads. At the encouraging hand, he leans in to his brother's shoulder and ducks his head to receive the pendant of polished bone Bachor has removed from about his own neck as had he expected it. There Bachor pats it against Einiond's breast. "Mind them, will you, brother?"

"Man of the house," Einiond intones and nods.

"Aye, the man of the house," Bachors replies, but then jabs a finger at his breast. "But you will give it back when it is time."

This sets Einiond to giggling. "Mine now!" he crows and they complete the ritual with a good hearted tussle that threatens to put the younger boys to shame.

"Ah, good, my lady," says Mistress Nesta, and I must stop with my prying. She worries at her hands, red and chapped as they are from their washing and the chill of the days. I have seldom seen her so distraught.

I draw my cloak tighter about me against the morning air. My lord's son grasps at the tips of my fingers and squints about him into the dim day. "What is it?"

"Two more have come down with the sickness in the night."

_Ai! Lady Elbereth have pity on us!_

'Tis a good reason the healer has for her distress. Through all these seasons of fear and wandering, Mistress Nesta's vigilance has kept the coughing plague at bay. Her greatest defense against its spread has been the brew of wine, cropleek, and oxgall and the walls of her sick house. But now my lord commands his folk all gathered in one place she has few other weapons to wield in its stead.

"Have you what you need for their care?" I ask and consider quickly what words I might use to convince the Council of the need to send men beyond our defenses, but still not imperil the case to keep the rest of our folk here.

"Aye, my lady, but we've naught more of room in which to put them. I have no shelter for these last, and I cannot see to their recovery should we not keep them warm and dry."

"Aye, I come. Let me first see to his comfort," I say, nodding to the small face that now peers up at us. "I shall then meet you."

She takes her leave swiftly, eager to be gone to her charges. I turn to lift Edainion into my arms, for, I think, should I need to see to those who sicken, he shall best spend his time with Elesinda. She sits with Ranger Gelir atimes through the day and sees to his comfort. It is when my lord's son weighs heavily upon my hip that I again spy Master Bachor.

Done with taking his leave of the kin under his care, a man has his ear, and pours words rapidly into it. 'Tis Master Fimon, a chief of the pledge and counted among Bachor's men. Their eyes are upon me, though swiftly withdrawn when I rise. I make much of settling Edainion though he grimaces and turns his head. _Ai!_ I like not the look upon the virgater's face, for his distress is plainly read there. Master Bachor stills Fimon's speech with a hand upon the man's arm.

"I shall speak to her," his lips say and I sigh, done with fussing with my lord's son's hair.

How is it that the folk of the Angle require Master Bachor to intercede on their behalf?

"Come, _onya_," I say, turning away from them, for I would see no more and wish only I would have spared myself the sight sooner. "I shall take you to Elesinda and she shall see to your meal."

Upon the sight of his lower lip pouting out, I laugh a little. "Come now, my pet. She will be with Ranger Gelir and you can spend the day with them."

At this he brightens enough to press his small body against mine where afore he had held himself apart. Gelir, though he is weary and sleeps much of the time, when awake he makes merry with the boy, setting him to laughing at the games they play. They seem well-matched, the two of them.

"Aye, _Mamil_," he says and thus we set off to start yet another day in this wearisome place.

~oOo~

Elder Maurus prods at the ground with the butt of his cane. "Aye, well, this place is as good as aught else." He grunts and stabs at a clump of grass, grinding it further into the soft earth. "Like as not, you will draw near to rock soon enough no matter where you dig."

Master Herdir looks upon the Elder gravely and I wonder at the seeming boundlessness of the man's patience. "Rock or not, there's good water beneath, I warrant," he says. His eyes light fondly upon the old man. "You may hold me to it, should you like, Maurus. It is there and not like to go dry any time soon."

Elder Maurus grunts. Grasping the edges of his cloak away from the clutch of the wind, he shuffles slowly down the small hillock. "Oh, never fear, so I shall, Herdir. So I shall."

My lord's reeve lets loose a soft huff of laughter and, going after him, lends the elder his arm on which to lean.

"It is a good place for a well, Elder, do you not think? High ground and not like to be flooded from the pasture beyond the pale."

'Tis Master Bachor who speaks as we follow Elder Maurus, for the Council has gathered ere the noon meal. My lord is abroad with his Rangers, pursuing sign of our enemy in the lands about the Angle and his kin patrols the boundaries of the Angle in its defense. As Masters Tanaes and Tanril sleep after their night upon the watch, they cannot attend. And so, Master Bachor left off striding upon the walk about the palisades to join us.

There, o'er the day, I paid him more heed as I had not had the chance in many years. I watched him clap his hand to the shoulders of our folk or stop beside one or another to share a word. Aye, sure it is he works to keep their spirits high at such a time, but I am left to marvel had he always done so and I had been blind to it. Ah! True it is, 'tis needed, but I wonder greatly at what they tell him and who might heed Master Bachor should he wish to speak more freely of his views on my lord's choices.

Here upon the highest point within the wooden palisades, what Council is awake and not at other duties have come to debate our course with the folk watching on. At the first, we closed the tall gates and made them fast, but now they stand open and much traffic crosses beneath the watch of our guards. They make their way from where they camp just outside the pale to their families within and back with little to check them. Young boys toss about a ball make-shifted from rags and their cries rise about us. They are much muddied by their play, but it seems their parents have little heart to check them. For they watch nearby, seated in small groups about the fires and keep our elders warm and in company. It might be thought there was an air of the festival about the place, but for the weary and worried look of the people, the dirt, the padded or horn scale tunics worn by the folk above our heads, and the sharp knives, axes, and spears they carried.

Ah, the work has been long to build my lord's defenses, and, in our haste to use them, much yet left undone. The walls are sound and the gate strong, but we have much to do within them. Upon the Council's meeting with the pledgeholders, paddocks were hastily built to keep the beasts from mingling among the folk and spreading their dung in our path, but we run low in hay and grain to keep them fed. We have rolled barrels of water from the Angle's square and keep them where they might catch the rain once emptied, should it be so kind as to fall in them, but we have no well from which to draw water. Nor have we cellars underfoot. Instead our smoked meats, roots, dried fruits and onions are collected in baskets that give the food little shelter from the rats and mice that will soon be drawn to this place and their bulk crowd out the people who brought them there. And, yes, yet again the Council must speak to the placement of granaries. It seems a small city rises from the enclosed pasture as mushrooms after a spring rain, and is just as sightly and well-ordered.

"Eh?" Elder Maurus grimaces, squinting into the thin winter sun.

Master Bachor raises his voice, nodding at the knoll behind the elder. "A well, there. A good site, do you not think?"

"Oh, aye!" the Elder says. He comes to a halt and shrugs, looking about. "As good a place as any."

"Then we should move the paddocks," I say, for the pens are not far from where we stand.

Through the crowd of moving folk can be seen the cattle chewing lazily. Their ears flick away the flies and a cow stretches her neck to voice her complaints for the lack of room in which to move.

"Where would you have them, then, my lady?" asks Master Herdir. He shades his eyes against the sun to look about for a more likely spot.

"I thought mayhap down there."

I point down the hill, but Master Bachor shakes his head and speaks. "'Tis at the lowest point and shall soon grow muddy there and the beasts' feet to rotting."

"Aye, but have we much choice? 'Tis either that or set it upon higher ground where their droppings shall poison the well. And surely they should not be there so long as to cause us grief."

"We have no way of knowing how long they shall be needed," says Master Bachor. "Should we be forced hither and ringed about with enemies, I would rather die fighting them than for the shortsightedness of our own choices."

"I cannot force the land to be higher ground at all points, Master Bachor. Some choices shall be put to us that have no one good answer."

"Nay, we have a choice, and a plain one at that, my lady." He points to a large tent of rough cloth.

My look in response must be a sour one. For hither have I just ordered the removal of our sick. A slow rise above it and the hayshed to its other side gives the place shelter and some little distance from the rest of our folk as can be best obtained.

"My lady, they could be moved elsewhere," he says, for clearly the idea is an annoyance to me and I am for the most part unwilling to consider it.

"And where would you put the ill, Master Bachor?"

From the wry look upon his face, it seems clear where he would wish them. To my shame I must confess the thought had come to me as well. Ah! 'Tis true, we may yet come to a time when it will seem best to set them beyond the walls, but that time is not now. Only at the very last would I even consider it, and even then I am unsure what I would do. But I know this, when Mistress Nesta came to me upon the day's rising and begged my aid, I could not put them away from us then.

"We take a grave risk should we keep them so close," he says. "The day will come when you and I shall deeply regret it, I think."

In his face I see reflected my own grim thoughts and, for reasons I knew not clearly then, this serves only to vex me more. I have drawn breath to protest when a voice brings me to halt.

"Oh, be easy on that score, Bachor," I hear and turn to find Elder Maurus' watery eyes upon us. They shine with some inner amusement. "We need not worry for that. The sickness takes at least a day or two to settle in the lungs and do its work. We will have been burned out or put to the sword well ere that."

For once, the Elder's dismal forecast brings a sudden smile to my face, and I must turn aside to master myself. I should not laugh at such a thing. Master Herdir is not so shy and laughs outright.

"Come along then," says Elder Maurus. "Should that be settled, let us look to the cellars. I would think ground lower than well and higher than paddock would be the best. This way." He sets his cane afore him and grimaces at the effort to pull his feet across the turf.

"Naught is settled yet!" exclaims Master Bachor, turning a sour look at the old man's back, for Master Herdir shrugs and follows him.

"Eh?"

"What have we settled?" Master Bachor repeats, raising his voice so that he might make the man hear him.

"Heh. I am an old man," calls Master Maurus over his shoulder as he makes his slow way. "I have not the time to waste upon the two of you bickering over naught." He waves his cane about as he walks. "Put the paddock here, put the sick folk there, or the other way about, it matters not. Either will serve."

Master Bachor lets loose a loud breath and shakes his head, rubbing at his brow. The Elder and Master Herdir proceed as had we agreed to follow, and so Master Bachor motions me forward with a show of courtesy.

We walk a ways, and, once we find ourselves in a quieter space where the folk are not so thick about us, I slow so I might walk beside the man who trails behind me silently. I have been puzzling over a thing, for, when I reflect upon Master Maurus' words, I come to feel as a small child chided for her willfulness. Mayhap it is deservedly so.

There was a time I would have put my trust in Master Bachor's goodwill without reservation, but, too, I know well my cause for which I resent him. When it comes to it, and he must make the choice, I know not which way his will shall swing; to the good of those about him or to his own.

"Master Bachor?"

"Aye, my lady," he says as we walk, keeping our pace even with the other.

"Of what did Master Fimon wish you to speak?"

His eyes come swiftly upon me and I think he considers both my intent and his words with much caution.

"'Tis the men," he says at length. "They worry for the flocks and herds they have left upon the land. The longer we stay confined in here and our men waiting upon we know not what, the more they become restless."

Aye, I worry, too, for what we have left behind. Should we return to it, we may find much in need of repair or, to our sorrow, beyond hope. And yet –

"Should the enemy come upon us as we are scattered –" I begin but go no further, for Master Bachor speaks swiftly upon my words.

"I do not disagree, my lady, but it matters not. They will find a way to look after what is theirs. Should we force them to it, they shall see to it even should it mean they do so by guile."

"They would leave the fortress unmanned?" I ask, shocked to slowness as I forget my feet.

Master Bachor then shakes his head at what I can only assume is the either the dullness or waywardness of my wits. "A man will risk much to hold onto his livelihood, my lady. For he knows well the sacrifice that might come after should he lose it."

At this, my face grows hot and I halt. "You need not speak to me as had I no knowledge of this, Master Bachor."

"Do you, my lady?" he asks and, halting, turns upon me. The boys bat at their ball of rags with their feet but the sound is but a dim distraction. "When you called us to council, you made it very clear that it is the House that decides what is to be done for the safety of the Angle." "And so," he goes on, gesturing about him, "we are here."

"Is it not the right of the House to make such decisions?"

"Aye, indeed, but it is not just its right, my lady, but its responsibility. When our lord took up his father's place, he took on the vow to protect those of the Dúnedain. So will not the House make a decision on this matter? Should it not, the choice shall be made for it."

Ah! Such words he would lay upon me.

"Why will you not trust the House, Master Bachor? For clearly you do not." I forget my resolve and raise my voice.

"Have you not the ear of your husband, my lady? Will you not beg him listen? What is this place?" he asks, raising his arms and looking about him at the sun and the sky and the walls of wood. "What is it but a trap? And we place ourselves in it? For once Maurus has the right of it, we shall die here."

"How are you so sure?" I demand and then fall silent. A boy, his cheeks bright with running upon the hill and his laughter, bumps past us, chasing after the sudden wayward flight of their ball.

We watch until he has passed, and then I ask, "Will you not trust your lord to exert himself to your good? What would you ask of the House that has not already been given?" I hiss the question at him for the ears of the folk who of a sudden pass by. "Has not the death of his father, and his father afore him, and all their sires in these last years -"

"Aye, yes, my lady! And your father, too. How well we know of his father lost, your father lost." He glares at me, but, strangely, his look is more weary than angered. His lips work against themselves as had he forced himself to swallow somewhat of a bitter taste. "Tell me, then, shall the Angle bear the weight of the dead and owe their own lives because of it?"

"Do not twist my words," I say. "I speak not of the debt of deaths, but of the extremities to which our lord would put himself and his men for our folk."

"You have forgotten much of me should you count me a fool, my lady. You are not alone in having heard the tales told by our folk who flee here. Unrest grows among those who remain in the Wild, and with good reason. They have been left on their own without the aid of our lord and his men. Will you not speak to our lord and intercede upon our behalf? My wife's sister would have had the wit to discern what our folk's tales imply. What of the lady of the Dúnedain, does not she?"

I can do naught but stare mutely at the man, pinned as I am by his gaze as he searches my face. I can think of no answer nor move that would not betray my lord's mind to him.

He stares at me for some time attempting to determine my thoughts ere he speaks again. "You will not speak to him, shall you." A huff of incredulity escapes from him and he wipes at his mouth. "You already know this. And so, of course, does he."

He laughs softly, albeit bitterly and turns about, gesturing loosely at high walls about us. "And so, this wooden folly," he exclaims, tears starting in his eyes. "What is it but an attempt to give comfort to those who have no understanding of its limits, to draw our gaze elsewhere and distract us from the lack of his men upon the Wild about us."

At this, I grab upon the thick woolen sleeve of the man's coat and, dragging him about, set our feet to follow Elder Maurus. For many eyes of our folk are now turned to us while we had forgotten ourselves. Their look is grim. I feel the chill of it upon my back and make a show of stumbling so that Master Bachor must either allow the hand I now place upon the bend of his arm or let me fall.

His quick eyes take in my alarmed look. Bachor glances about us and then curses softly. He clutches at my hand to draw it into the crook of his arm, so we may walk together. He takes his time, picking out the driest path and patches of grass and tightening his arm to give me support whether I need it or no. The cries of the children with their ball have now ceased as they seek to pull it from the tangle of goats in their paddock without being trampled or butted. One bright fellow lights upon tempting the beasts away with a handful of fodder while his mate clambers o'er the fence.

In a little, I can breathe easier, for our folk have returned to their tasks and remark our passage little.

"Forgive me, my lady," Master Bachor says low, inclining his head to me and laying his hand o'er mine where I clasp his arm. "That was careless of me."

I nod. But I cannot censure him, for I was as equally thoughtless and the warm press of his hand waylays me with reminders of when we were young and, in courting my sister, he had set himself as my brother and protector.

"I do not expect us to be of an accord on all points, Master Bachor," I say, giving up any pretense of ignorance around the man. It matters not. He would know me false should I make the attempt. "Indeed, I expect much of the opposite. I can set your concerns to my lord when he returns, but you are correct, he knows to expect these fears. I have naught to tell you but that I trust his judgment of what is best for the defense of the Dúnedain."

"I would very much like to trust his plans, as well, my lady," he sighs and releases my hand. "Only I knew more of what they are."

We draw near the open gate, having lost Master Maurus and my lord's reeve in the press of our folk. There, with the midday meal upon us, there is little traffic to and fro. The folk sit about their small fires and break apart loaves of bread and dip them into pots sitting in the coals. The smell of a mix of woodsmoke and steam of cooked beans, lentils, onion, and meats drift to us upon the chill wind rushing through the gateposts.

Master Bachor halts of a sudden and when I glance upon his face it is to follow his gaze down upon the fall of the headland below the gate. There comes Ranger Halbarad, his shoulders slumped and features stern as he toils up the rise of the meadow. Behind him stride my lord's company of Rangers. My lord is not with them.

~oOo~


	36. Chapter 35

AN: mild dubious consent. Explicit version of this chapter available on ArchiveOfOurOwn

~ Chapter 35 ~

_Then she fell on her knees, saying: 'I beg thee!'_

'_Nay, lady,' he said, and taking her by the hand he raised her. Then he kissed her hand, and sprang into the saddle, and rode away, and did not look back; and only those who knew him well and were near to him saw the pain that he bore._

ROTK: The Passing of the Grey Company

~oOo~

_~ TA 3015, 6__th__ of Cermië: __Today in naming day gift for my lord's son received from the sisters Berel and Adel of their devising, one large shallow bowl of pottery fit for bathing, edged about with a design of rippling water, fish, and reeds, and one item most like onto a man's member at its most erect that my lord and his kinsman are not to see. This last they gave with much laughter, advice, and their sympathies for my lord's long absence. It is a full six months since his promised return, and we have had no word. _

~oOo~

The sun beats upon my head so that the hair on my neck is a torture. I cannot bear to wear a scarf about my head and so have abandoned it. Still, though I wear my hair in a braid, errant strands cling to my skin. They itch and tickle and I push at them, wishing I had thought to plait its length atop my head. Ah, but it is hot! My very shift seems as a second skin pasted to my back. The current rushes burbling against my knees as I stand balanced on bare feet amidst the river stones. The distant rattling beat of a woodpecker echoes o'er the river. When I scoop up cool water and pat it upon my face and beneath the line of my shift, I search the trees for the bird's telltale flicker.

Come this winter it shall be three years since the folk of the Angle need hide themselves behind my lord's fortress of earth and timber. We have had no need of it, though it still stands well-kept and more greatly provisioned and settled in the location of its granaries, paddocks, cellars, and sickhouses.

My lord did not return with his men to the Angle after their victory but sent word with them. He then took to long months away. Mayhap he had spoken to his kinsman of what led him to search upon roads so far from the land of his birth, but I knew naught of his purpose and could but await his return.

I had not the chance to speak to my lord of Master Bachor and his bitter thoughts. Halbarad knew of them and I had no need to tell him. But, in my lord's absence and in the absence of further incursions of our foes, it soon came to a cautious ease between us. It was no greater understanding we achieved, but merely a lack of urgency to our disagreements. Peace lay upon us again. Though our folk ne'er forgot their fears, they need not live only in wait of their deaths. And so, we returned to the petty dealings of furlongs and ploughs, and minor thefts and nuisances.

Were there any hint of what had passed, it was seen in the renewed vigor with which Master Bachor asserted his will upon the Council. He resisted aught which might increase the House's hold upon the Angle and saw to an e'er increasing tangle of ties of obligation and loyalty among his oathmen. One day, mayhap, I will rue it. But I could do naught but the same, and hope that when that day came, it would be enough.

Today, the air lies heavy upon the pastures, fields, and gardens, and the Angle is quiet beneath its weight. The forest is dull as a long-closed room and its beasts sleep in the heat of the day. Staying indoors is insufferable. For in these days of midsummer no breeze will begin to stir until the sun has set. I have come to the river to find relief. Here upon the boundary of my lord's pastures the creatures of forest and air are awake, rustling in the grass and singing from the trees whose boughs hang o'er the water. The young Ranger set to guard his chieftain's wife and child paces the bank upstream and, forbearing all other tasks, I kilted my skirts in my belt and wade out to gather reeds.

True, 'tis much late in the season to gather their newborn shoots for eating, but their tough siblings have many uses, and their roots can be dried and ground for a thickener in soups and stews. The thatch above the shed is wearing thin and the last storm sent water trickling onto our stores of hay. A mold has attacked the baskets in the buttery and weakened bottoms of one or two, and so they need replacing. But, today, with the sun shining brightly upon the water and the foliage a thicket of green upon the shore, I think I shall boil the plants to make a soft dye the color of newly opened leaves. I have a wool in mind, a thin yarn of creams and flecks of brown that will take the color well, or mayhap, in its stead, a fine linen spun from last year's flax. No. Aye. Yes! The linen.

The reeds crunch in my arm as I wade to the shoals and lean to the water again. In my mind, I weigh the merits of wool and linen and listen to the warblers' high twittering coming from amidst the reeds. Their shadows fly across the water as they skim the air for the bright buzzing insects aloft above the river. The water is blessedly cool when I dip my hand below its surface and grab hold of a reed. The Shadow seems but a distant thought today, for my lord has sent word and we expect his return within the month. Today is my day of rest and I plan to make good use of it. I hum a simple tune from my mother's journals while I work, singing when the words come to me.

By dint of much tugging and wrenching, the plant comes free and, shaking it in the river, I clean its root of mud and resume my song. The woodpecker's thrum sounds loudly, as were it just nearby. Still humming lightly, I glance up to find the bird when, at a glimpse of a tall dark shape lounging against a tree along the riverbank, I straighten and twist about. He stands there amidst the grasses and seems to have been there for some time.

"My lord!" I call. So pleased am I that I cannot help but exclaim, "You are come!"

His face lights with a smile at the warmth of his welcome and he pushes away from the tree. "Aye, and just in time, it seems."

Ah! But he had been so long gone it seems I had forgot just how fair his face when delight shines from it!

I am deep in the water and must fight against the current to approach the shore where he comes to the edge of the river. The rocks in the bed of the stream are large and smooth, but the brown moss that covers them is slippery and I make less progress than I would like.

"In time, my lord? In time for what?" A suspicion rises in my mind. "How long were you standing there, my lord? And where is Ranger Treldir? Why gave he no warning?" I raise my voice above the plash of water as I wade heavily through the river. I slip and catch myself among the stones, the folds of my skirts now laden with water.

"I sent him back to the house," my lord says and, seeing me struggle, with a quick motion pulls off his pack and rolled cloak and coat where he has lashed them. "I heard you singing."

The sun dances through the leaves, lighting his hair and confounding my vision. He has taken a step to the edge of the land along the river where it rises above the shallows and alights to one knee as I approach. I shade my eyes against the glare and laugh.

"I wonder, then, it did not drive you away."

"Indeed? Quite the contrary," my lord says, his smile broad. He knows full well I do not raise my voice in song where it may be heard, and with good reason.

I stand there in the shallows, my arm wrapped about a bundle of long grasses and my legs bare. As I am still, tiny fishes dart about my ankles and nip at the hairs. My lord is much grimed by dust and sweat. Yet, still, his eyes shine with the shimmering river and I can think only of the warmth of his voice.

"Shall I take that for you?" He extends his hand down to me.

Hastily, I add the last plant to my bundle and raise it to him. The reeds squeak as they rub one tother but soon my lord has lifted them from me. His face clouds with confusion and, I would think, some dissatisfaction, when I do not take the hand he now stretches to me.

"Shall you not come to the house?" His hand drops. For a heartbreaking moment, it seems he is taken aback by my apparent refusal to welcome him home.

"My lord," say I, "truly does your House welcome you home, but you have not visited it yet and so do not know what you ask. The house is unbearably hot. I have put Elesinda to watching your son splash about in the bathing tub. Should you like, you can chase after your naked and slippery son in the shade of the garden."

At this, he laughs and lays aside the bundle of reeds.

"My son is well?"

"Aye, my lord," I say, "last I saw, he had doused Elesinda from his play in the bath."

"Ah, she cares for him well," he says, his eyes bright with a fond pride and the dazzling sun.

I peer at him through the shifting light, but my lord is silent, looking upon me as he leans his arms upon his knee. It seems I cannot read the tale his face would tell. The throb of insects from the trees and the steady rush of the river are broken only by the swirl and plop of water running over hidden boulders.

"My lord?"

"Mayhap the house can wait," says he, and then a smile lights his face, "and I may be convinced to aid you in gathering rushes were I promised to receive a song in exchange."

"Ha!" say I. "My lord would do better to implore the frogs to give him a chorus. 'Twould be the sweeter of the twain." I turn for the deeper water, calling lightly over my shoulder, "Did not the Elves teach you their speech in your youth?"

"I learned much in Rivendell, lady," he says, raising his voice as he stands at the river's edge. "But I do not believe its Master studies the tongues of the river frogs."

"Is not the river there its greatest feature? Or so I have heard. I would think, then, it a strange thing to neglect, my lord," say I. "Very well, mayhap you should join the frogs in the shadows of the reed beds, where they may tutor you in their way of song and complete the lack in your education."

Whatever answer my lord may have made is lost in the rush of water. I do not need to glance behind me to know he does not stand at the river's tall edge; for his keen glance no longer burns upon my back. Insects buzz undisturbed from the grasses, for my lord walks the bank to find an easier place of entrance. As I wait, I wade to a bend in the river's course where the trees lean over its currents and send shadows reaching across the water. Silt collects in the river's trap and my toes sink deep in mud. The heads of the reeds, heavy with their lace of blown flowers, nod above me. I slip my hands into the murk of the shallows and tug against the bulbous roots of the reeds, but my mind is on my lord.

Soon I see his shadow through the lens of the river. He has stripped to his breeches and plunged into the river's depths. Sporting in the water, he lets the current carry him downstream and then strikes toward the shore. His hair is as sleek as the river otter's when he breaks the surface and finds his feet among the stones of the riverbed. The current roars against him as he trudges toward me, wiping the water from his face and wringing out his hair. It is as had I ne'er seen him afore. _Ai!_ I cannot take him all in at once. A glance is all I manage ere I must look away.

He joins me in the shallows and, without speaking, bends to pluck the reeds from their muddy bed. We work in silence amid the music of the river. Dragonflies whisk downstream, lighting briefly upon the reeds, their bright bodies flashing colors of green and blue. We move from sun to shade, working our way down the river and its tune changes as we move through its stream. Soon, for the heat of the sun and the plucking of the reeds, I forget my discomfort and work easily beside my lord.

"You said my son is well?"

I look up from where I am washing away the mud of the river to find my lord squinting into the reeds.

"As well as ever, my lord," I say. "He eats heartily, grows plump, sleeps well, has Halbarad twined about his fingers, and turns the house upon its head at least twice a day. You should recognize the likeness, my lord."

A great laugh bursts from him, halting his attempt to gain a hold upon a plant. "Indeed?"

"Indeed," I say and return to my task.

"Plump, you say?" he asks after a moment. He grins broadly, as were he inviting me into some source of mirth only we two have shared.

"Ah, in truth," I say, smiling, "mayhap no great resemblance now, but I am sure you will grow more like with your stay."

"I look forward to it."

In my mind, I rifle through our pantry and gardens. Honey, flour, butter, and eggs, I surely have, and the brambles I planted about the outer wall of the garden are heavy with a dark, sweet berry. Aye, my lord's frame will not be so spare for long, should I have somewhat to say in the matter.

"I did not realize I turned your house upon its head," my lord says, though he sounds less contrite than pleased at the thought.

"Did I say so?" I ask, my voice sweetly puzzled.

"I believe you did, lady."

"I do not recall it." I shake my head, frowning.

"Mayhap, then, have you forgot, it is time for me to reassert my proper authority."

I laugh. None would question that he stood in last judgment upon his house, but my lord ruled with such a gentle hand it lie lightly upon us. He lays the reed upon the stack growing in his arm.

"I note you do not contest your effect upon Halbarad." I swipe at the hairs loose along my neck, hoping to dislodge them from where they cling to my skin and tickle.

"I do not think he minds terribly."

"No, mayhap he does not," I say. "He certainly does naught to discourage your son and the child would command every spare moment Halbarad has to offer."

"Are they grown so fond?"

He speaks quietly, and, at a glance, I see that his look is solemn.

"Aye," I say, "you chose your Great Hound well, my lord. He dotes on the boy."

My lord does not answer, but peers into the reeds and grasps one close to the root. His hands are deep in the water and he tugs mightily. By his silence, I know his dilemma. Torn in two, no doubt. For the sake of the son, he would have Halbarad's heart fully his. For the sake of the friend, he would have his son return that regard. And yet, he would not see his son consider another as he should his father, no matter how much he may love the man who stands in his place.

I go on, speaking lightly, cleaning the roots of a reed as were that of which I speak no matter. "Still, your son looks forward to your return with an eagerness that is unmatched by his other appetites."

"I cannot see how, at his tender age." The reed comes free and my lord straightens.

"Ah, but my lord, you know not."

He has abandoned all pretense at gathering reeds and scowls mildly at me, his delight twinkling in his eyes. "What is it I do not know?" He knows his wife well enough to see she enjoys the spinning of more than just wool.

"You do not know, my lord, the insistence with which your son demands his favorite tale every night. He will not sleep without hearing it."

"And what tale is that?" he asks with a jerk of his chin.

"When your father returns home…" I glance up from where I work. Reeds sway in my lord's arm where he has them pressed against his breast. He pays them little heed, for he gazes upon me as were he seeing the dawn after a night of weary toil.

"_Wilt thou tell me the full tale?"_

Smiling, I look away. I lean into the reeds and my voice falls into a patter over the burbling of the stream and the rasp of the long leaves.

"When your father returns home, my love, he will rise upon the morrow and wake you to the day. He will lift you from your bed into ours. There you will be warm and snug under the blankets with your sire.

"When your father returns home, my child, he will race you down the stairs. There he will seat you at our table and you will eat together of pottage sweetened with honey and topped by fresh cream.

"When your father returns home, my lamb, he will walk with you through the fields. There he will take you upon his shoulders and you will see all the lands to which you are heir.

"When your father returns home, my little one, he will take your hand and lead you into the forest. There he will teach you to walk softly as does the wolf when he stalks his prey. There he will teach you the names of all the trees that tower o'er your head and of all the green leaves that scatter beneath your feet. There he will teach you to have the hands of the guardian and the healer.

"When your father returns home, my son, in the even he will take you upon his knee. There he will tell you stories of the Eldar race, the house of Beren the One-Handed, and the kings of Númenor. You will hear how you bear the blood of the Faithful and how you will hold our people in your care.

"But tonight, my precious one, you must sleep and dream of your father, and await his return home."

My lord stands as one entranced, the head of the reed he holds bobs gently in the river. He takes a deep breath and recalls himself. "You say he never tires of this?"

"Never, my lord, though he may know it so well he corrects me should I speak the words out of turn," I say, straightening my back against hours of bending.

A slow smile breaks across my lord's face. He bends to drag the roots of the reed he holds through the water, rinsing them clean. Slowly, he strides through the river toward me and places the reed upon the stack he carries.

"I see you have set me the task of satisfying my son. Mayhap I should command Halbarad to keep my return to himself so that I may do so undisturbed. What think you?"

"I think, then, you will tire of us my lord, and return to your ranging all the sooner."

"I think not, lady." He stands near, gazing down upon me.

I bend again to the reeds, unwilling to look upon him so closely; for in his eyes I see the river running.

"Hmm," I say. "We shall see once our son has visited the wrath of every heir of Elendil, from Isildur to your father, upon you."

His solemnity falls from him as he breaks into laughter. I say it lightly, but, in truth, I am proud of my lord's son. He has the strong will of his father and shall have need of it. From his look, it seems my lord takes pride in him as well.

"'Tis the battle of the wiping of the nose," I say, "the washing behind the ears, and the laying down to bed while others are yet awake that he fights, my lord. I am afraid to say victory eludes him on these fronts, though I have yet to prevail in the battle of the eating of pease. I fear he resists until they congeal to a cold mush that but strengthens his resolve."

"Glad am I my son has at least one field on which he does not submit. I would not have him abandon all hope."

Though his words are light on the surface, I rise from the river and study his face.

"Is that the reason you were so long gone?"

"It is," he says and will say no more.

Instead, he takes the reeds I have gathered in his arm and waves away a dragonfly that buzzes to a rest upon my shoulder, sending it flying over the water. The touch of the river seems to have grown cold and I shiver.

"I would not have you abandon hope either, lady," he says, drawing my eyes; for he has laid a light touch upon my cheek and stands so near that, were I to raise my hand, it would brush across his side. "Not when you brighten my return with your tales."

My heart seems nigh to leap from my breast at his touch and his eyes fasten upon me intently. I dare not meet his gaze.

"How long will your stay be, my lord?"

"Weeks, a month, no more."

_Ai! _So short the time.

The sun darts in through the shifting leaves and the light sparkling off the water plays across his face. He is in no hurry to return to our task, but, instead, his gaze seems to trace the tendrils of hair that have worked their way from my braid and trace the line of my neck. It seems I can look anywhere but in his eyes.

"I am sorry to hear it, my lord. Your House will barely have time to welcome you home then, ere I must prepare your farewell."

"Aye, I would have it otherwise, but it cannot be helped."

He bends toward me momentarily under the force of the river and I wish this to end, this torture.

"Then we must make the most of you while you are here," I say lightly, attempting against the warmth that rises in me to strike a tone of fondness that will not press for more than he can give. I touch his arm with a briefness that will both reassure and send him back to gathering reeds.

But it is as had he been waiting for that touch to bridge the gap between us. I cannot draw my hand away, for he has found the small of my back and pulled me into him. The river rushes against us and I sway, losing my footing but my lord strengthens his embrace, crushing the reeds between us. He does not seek my lips. Rather, he releases me to run tender fingers along the skin of my leg. His gaze softens as he watches my face, the heat crawling from his touch.

I think my heart will break for my shame. Tears well in my eyes. I cannot look upon him, for I shake with the strength of my need and the fear he will spurn me because of it.

"Ah, lady," he murmurs when I turn my head, and sighs. His hand returns to my back and he clasps me to him. His lips press warmly into my hair where he lays his face.

I must not weep. Should my tears fall, he will know it, for I lay my brow against his bare breast, the reeds creaking between us as my lord brushes a fond thumb upon my back. I wish he would not tease me so, my tender tormentor.

My lord speaks softly, his breath in my hair and my eyes closing at the sound of his words.

"How stands your fortress, lady? Is not the foundation well-laid?"

"Aye, my lord," I say, my voice a whisper against his skin.

"Do you not deem it time we build upon it?"

He draws back his breast, though his hand remains against my back. By refusing me refuge or release he forces me to either return his gaze or reject his affections outright. He will accept none other.

When I raise my face, my lord's eyes are all I see. They gaze upon me and fill my view. I know naught else. In them, I see a fire that well I know, for have I not come too near afore and been burned by those flames? And yet, truly, what choice have I?

The topmost reeds slide from the bundle and splash into the water, but I care not, for my lord has claimed my lips in a kiss the warmth of which threatens to send us both sinking into the river. I cling to him against the rushing waters, the smell of the river about us until we can stand no more.

~oOo~

The grass along the river is green and smells sweet and makes for a soft bed. There my lord lays me down and kisses me. I thread my fingers into his dark hair as my heart pounds like a wild thing caged in my breast. Between the touch of his lips, he says naught, but runs his hand along my back and thigh from where we lay upon our sides, and draws my knee o'er his hip.

When I trail my lips along the sinews of his neck beneath his ear, he murmurs, "Aye,_ little wren_," his voice soft and fond.

My eyes fly open.

"Wren?"

In all the years we have been married and all the nights we lie together as husband and wife, he has ne'er spoken my name nor called me aught. Though delighted by the impulse, I am dismayed at the word he has chosen. Is this how he thinks of me? A drab wren?

"Aye," he says and draws a hand down my hair until he can tug loose the tie at the end of my braid. "For the darkness of your head," he says, "the brown of your skin where it has seen the sun, the softness of your breast where it has not." At this he presses me to my back. "And the high warble of your voice when you sing." Here he presses kisses down the bone of my breast, though his lips smile against me.

"It does not sound so ill in the high tongue," he says when I tut my annoyance.

"'Tis not the sound which offends, my lord."

He laughs gently and returns to distracting me with slow, wet kisses and I with the feel of sun-warmed skin over broad shoulders and the long, long line of his back.

"I suppose I should be grateful you have not chosen to call me somewhat else," I say as his lips and tongue work at the line of my shift and his beard chafes at the skin there. His fingers untwine the tie that holds my dress closed. Though I protest, the flick of his tongue beneath tightly-bound linen draws fire upon my skin and my voice falters. "For all I know, having heard my voice, you might think 'little crow' would be as fitting."

At that, he bursts full into laughter. Overcome, my lord must cease his attentions and lies helpless and heavy upon me, his breast shaking against mine. Then, struggling to contain himself, he lifts his head to nuzzle at my ear.

"_Aye, then, should it please thee, lady, thou mayest call me thy woodpecker_," he whispers. I snort and clap my hand to my face, so caught unaware am I by my laughter.

"'Tis not a name to be so freely given when you have put so very little effort into earning it, my lord," I say and a great shout of laughter bursts from him.

For a long moment it seems we cannot move, but cling each to the other, quaking with merriment at our own cleverness. When I can breathe again, I find his face above mine, smiling.

"Mayhap then, should I put it to verse, lady, you would find the name the more pleasing."

With his breath skimming upon my ear, he hides his face beside my cheek and chants softly.

_O'er water's course, beneath the sun,  
the little wren's sweet call it trills.  
Song lightly lifts the wandering heart  
and hope for house and hearth fulfills.  
With tresses dark upon her head  
and soft and warm the small bird's breast,  
the tender heart beneath lies hid,  
gives promise to the restless rest._

When he lifts his head, I find it is to turn upon me a young boy's smile, so delighted in himself he seems. So, 'twas this that occupied my lord's thoughts as he waited and watched from the riverbank. I know not what he finds upon my face, for my tongue cleaves to the roof of my mouth and it seems all I may hear is the beating of my heart within my ears.

Locks of his dark hair have tumbled from his neck where they have dried and sway between us. I gather one and twine it about my fingers. It is heavy and warm with the sun and smells of my husband and the river in which he swam. My lord's face quiets, his eyes first searching mine and then resting upon my lips, where they linger. But it is I who tug his head gently down as I rise, so that our lips might meet.

It seems I have forgot much of what brought pleasure when laying with my lord. No matter the memories that stilled my thoughts or the dreams from which I awoke with the lingering flush of heat, they are but a pale shadow of the pleasures brought by the press of naked flesh. We twine together on the high bank of the river amidst the scent of damp earth and crushed grasses and take our fill, as had the time apart been a famine and we both starved of touch.

I have ne'er known my lord so eager. For in the depth of the pleasure he takes of my hands upon him, he laughs, the sound short and low but full of joy, ere he captures my mouth in his. With his men below stairs to hear, most oft my lord must urge me to silence, but not now. But for the distant thundering of the current as it rushes past the high bank where we lay and the call of the birds upon the river's edge, we are alone. Here he whispers soft words of encouragement.

"_Aye, little wren,_ _sing for me," _he commands softly into the crown of my head, and only then do I hear the sounds issuing from me.

I open my eyes to find my lord gazing intently at me, taking in the heaving of my breast as the heat raises upon it, the sweat that slips and gathers in the cup of bone and skin at the base of my neck, and my face as it contorts with my pleasure. Closing my eyes against the flicker of sun sifting through leaves above our heads, the pleasure of warm, living flesh is a shock against the years of wanting. I cannot think why I had so tightly clutched onto those parts of my heart I had withdrawn behind high walls of defense.

Glad am I he would tuck his face in the tight space between my raised arm and brow, for when, at last, stillness comes upon us and I come to myself, I know not why, but find I am weeping. The tears I shed slip from my eyes to mingle with the sweat that trickles from my brow and collects in the short hairs upon my lord's jaw where he is pressed to me. _Ai, _but my heart aches. I am in a confusion so deep it seems I drown in a pool made bitter by longing.

"You set a sweet ambush upon me, lady," my lord complains as he breathes heavily against the crown of my head, his breast heaving against mine.

"Should my lord not be satisfied with his efforts, mayhap he would wish more practice," I whisper, fighting for breath. It sets him to chuckling against me, but I can spare little further thought for our word play.

"Aye, lady, in truth, I would. 'Twas worth every step of the long journey home," he says and then chuckles low. "You have been speaking to the wives of the Angle, again." He releases my hands and resettles himself so he is not lying so heavily upon me. "Aye, '_thy kisses are sweet, but thy touch is sweeter still_.'"

"Later," he promises ere he cups my cheek to press warm lips to my ear, then cheek and brow, "after I have caught us some supper and you and I have a chance at bathing in the river."

With this he groans and resettles on his side with his head lying upon the crook of one arm and the other lying upon me. The breeze rising from the river slips chill against heated skin where he had lain.

Once his breathing has calmed, he opens his eyes and pulls back a little, so he may look upon me. His face is graced with a wicked smile and I see that light gleaming in his eyes. I clap my hands to my face. Oh, _ai!_ I had hoped my lord would let it go without comment. I twist so that I am small and hidden in the shadow of the long line of his body.

"I had thought, mayhap, you did not know my name," says he. I shake my head, hiding from his mirth. Strands of hair slide from where they had gathered upon my cheek and cover my face.

It seems not right, the sound of his father-given name upon my lips. It is as had I cursed him and laid him low.

"Be easy, lady." He gently teases twig or leaf or moss from my hair and flicks it into the river. "There are few who know my true name; fewer still who would say it so sweetly. But I will not demand you call me by it should you be unwilling.

"Though," he says, and here he lifts aside my hair so he can smile broadly at the eye that blinks up at him from between my fingers, "could I convince you to call out to me at the height of your pleasure again, I would not be unwilling to hear it."

He falls still of a sudden, his eyes fixed on mine. Horror dawns upon his face and by this I know I have lost the battle and he sees my tears for what they are.

"Lady?" he asks low, but I have turned away deep into the corner between his breast and the grass on which he had laid me down.

His hand comes gentle upon the back of my head. "Lady? _Tell me I did not hurt thee! Truly, had I thought thy cries of pleasure and thee willing, else I would not – _"

I shake my head against him, forestalling his thoughts,though still I school my body to a rigid stillness that must not give him comfort.

"What is it?"

"I know not, my lord," I say, my voice muffled in my hands, and truly I do not, but this does not satisfy him.

He lays a hand upon my shoulder and pushes me away. He does not force me to open my eyes to look upon him but moves so he may clasp my face between his hands.

"What distresses you, lady? Tell me."

Despite the apprehension that gives urgency to his voice, he presses lips to my tears, gentling them away and pressing his brow to mine. But for a long moment I cannot speak, for even this brings me pain so that my eyes squeeze the tighter closed and I must breathe deep or soon go to sobbing. For now, at these tenderest of touches, it comes to me.

I had thought, mayhap, what my lord had given afore had been his limit. And yet it was not. I had not known him capable of such generosity of fervor and tenderness. My heart aches for it and I can but weep for the lost years of resignation.

At my silence, he has drawn me to him as he laid back and tucked my head to his breast. There he waits and, I think, peers into the shifting leaves above us and listens to the river, and wonders. His hands are unsure upon me, but with one he steadies me against him and with the other he brushes my hair from my brow.

_Ai! _ What am I to do?

"I have done somewhat to cause you pain, lady. Will you not tell me?" he asks after some time.

At this, I ease myself from his grasp and, sitting up, turn my back to him. "I cannot do this, my lord. I cannot do this thing you ask of me." I wave a hand at the grass where our forms are yet pressed within it ere rubbing at my brow. "And then you are gone."

"Ah lady." My lord's hand comes upon my hair, smoothing it from cheek to my back as he rises to sitting behind me. "What would you have me do?" he asks low. "I cannot stay. Things move upon the world I must address, or all is lost."

"I speak not of your duties that take you from us. Those I shall bear without complaint. I speak of the nights you lay beside me and cannot bring yourself to touch me. You do not allow my touch when I might wish it and I must wait upon the time when again you will suffer it. I am at my end, my lord. I cannot."

At this, he falls silent, for my tears have started afresh, and I feel his hand no longer.

_Ai! _I had made peace with the beast within my heart and now it has burst free of its cage, for the outpouring of pleasure battered gates long barred closed and now all is swept away in the flood of too strong feeling and too free a tongue.

"My lord, I know you would not wish to bed a woman without feeling or affection, but you are much changed in this your return to us. I wish you would not exert yourself to awaken these very things in me and then abandon me to them once you have achieved your aim," I say, and then must halt, for my throat clenches upon the words I must say next. I draw in a deep breath to quiet the shuddering of my voice. "I am not a tool to be taken up at need and then set aside when I have quickened and bear your child."

"_Thou art no tool to me," _comes his voice, low and insistent.

"_Then should it please thee, _my lord,do not treat me as such!_" _

With that I am left to still my weeping on my own. So long does my lord remain silent and unmoving behind me, I wonder, then, should he e'er speak.

_Ai! _I am a mess of tears and snot; an unlovely thing to look at. I swipe at my face and do not stop the sound of disgust it would wring from me. I am such a great fool! With that I lean across where my lord had laid me down. I jerk the corner of my shift to me from where we had abandoned it so that bits of leaves fly in its wake.

No matter how I might press the linen to my face and wipe at tears, it does little to remove the sight of my lord sitting behind me. There he has drawn his legs to him and leans upon them, his shoulders bowed o'er his lap. I saw not his face, for his hair hangs o'er his brow where he bends over his hands and rubs at his knuckles.

Ah, so fair had been the day and joyous had been my lord's return. I have done naught but spoiled my lord's welcome. We have so little time with him and not only have I wasted it but doubt not I have ravaged this fragile thing between us beyond repair.

"Forgive me, my lord," I say, releasing a long breath to bring stillness to my heart. "I should not have spoken. You need not fear. I shall be content."

"Content?" He has raised his head and now looks upon me with somewhat of alarm.

"My lord, I pray you do not put great weight upon my words. I am done with my tears." Sighing, I tug upon the cloth, pulling it about in search of the neck of my shift. "You were gone many months, and I think your wife just lonely for her husband."

There it is. I have found it. I gather up the cloth so I might throw the garment over my head.

"Stop." My lord reaches his long arm about me and grabs at my shift. "Lady, _I beg thee, stop!_" he says as he snatches it from my grip.

I clasp my hands about my knees for want of aught else for them to do.

"Of all the things you do that I dislike," he says as he balls up the cloth, "it is this that pains me the most. It is as had you taken a sharp blade to parts of yourself, cutting them off in order to leave naught but what you think is most pleasing to me."

At this I wince and find I have turned away. "My lord," I say. "In the measure of all the burdens we bear it is but a little thing. It will be as it was afore. You need not –"

"I do not wish to be the kind of man that would ask such a thing of you!" He casts aside my shift and pauses. "Even though, it seems, I have most grievously failed of my attempts to avoid it."

"Ah, lady," he breathes when I cannot bring myself to look upon him. He gathers me to him, his arms wrapped about me, shoulders and knees and all. There he lays his brow upon my head and remains silent for a long moment, as were he considering his words.

"You are not blind, nor unfeeling," says he at last, drawing me from my thoughts. He speaks softly so I must attend closely or lose his words in the rush of water at our feet. "I had thought I could ready myself to be wedded through an act of will. But it was not so.

"Indeed, you have been most patient with me. For this, and the pain it has caused you, you are owed a full accounting." He swallows with some effort ere pressing his face to my neck to release a long breath. "But I cannot speak of it and know not shall I ever be able."

He sighs after a moment, and, opening his eyes, resettles against me. "I have spent many years amidst soldiers and hirelings. I have sold my own sword to kings and stewards. I have most oft lived among hard men and have the look of it. And so, have oft been asked, afore, had I naught waiting for me; home or kin or family. And for the first, I knew the answer and knew it dependent not upon some striving or trial or chance of the world to achieve. I could speak of you, that you were a good woman, and of my son, whom his mother was raising to be strong of will but kind. But, of the first, too, I was asked, in all my wandering, an you and my son knew me. And, for my shame, I knew not what answer to give."

Here he stops for a little, and, ere he goes on, my lord's thumb moves gently against me where he holds me to him.

"Aye, I deem you have the right of it. Mayhap, I am changed. I was gone long, lady, and I fear the time away was fruitless. I did not find what I sought. In the last, I despaired of making sense of the signs I had found and thought to retrace my steps and take counsel. I passed through many empty lands for many months," he says low. "There were times I thought I had lost all power of speech for want of practice and was as dumb as the beasts with whom I shared my path. I had little then to hold my mind and the darkness of my thoughts was my only companion.

"I spent much time in thought bent upon my son and my own infancy as a lone child amidst the Elder-born. And thought much upon my mother and her loneliness and long grief. Bitter, now, seems the cup of cares that wore at her until her heart had naught left to give. In truth, I had not known how bitter 'til now. I would not force you to drink it, too, should I have the power to prevent it. That way lies a despair you and I can ill afford.

"Of all the things I fear the most, it is this; that I shall fall to a trap of my own devising, that I shall not be worthy of the tests yet to come. They will push me to my greatest limit and tempt me with every weakness I have. I have been drinking deep of my mother's cup, lady, but can do so no longer. You have been generous in your wait for me. But, I think, should you be willing to forgive me for the suffering it cost you, I am ready."

At this he falls silent.

At a sudden impulse, I rise against his hold and grasp his hand ere he can draw it away. I am unsure should I wish to accept an offer born of regret, but though my lord's look is solemn, there I see a longing that sharpens upon the present, not the past.

"_I know thy name,"_ I say, his fingers warm and strong and palm toughed by his labors between mine, and his eyes drawn to me from where he had looked down at our hands. _"Thy father laid thee afore our very hearth and blessed thee with it when first thou drewst breath and opened thine eyes upon the world. And that name thou shalt ever carry with pride. But this too, thou hast a name thou hast earned through thy long trials to bring thy people peace. It is thine already and thou hast no need to wait for its bestowing. Thou art my lord. And I would call thee by thy name, shouldst thou accept it." _

For a long moment, he regards me steadily and I know not his thoughts. But then he draws his hand from my grip, folding mine in his so he might press his lips to my knuckles ere he holds it against his breast and speaks.

"_Thou art híril nín. My House was desolate and all but abandoned, but thou madest of it a stronghold of light and comfort to stand against our Enemy. I shall then call thee híril nín, my lady of the House, shouldst thou accept it, and hope for the days when the Shadow is no more."_

His hand cupping my cheek, his lips find mine. For a long moment we are thus, and I forget the heat of the sun bearing down upon our heads, the rush of water at our feet, and the tickle of the grass upon which we sit, and lose myself in the tenderness of their touch.

~oOo~


	37. Chapter 36

~ Chapter 36 ~

_Then going to the House of the Kings in the Silent Street, Aragorn laid him down on the long bed that had been prepared for him. There he said farewell to Eldarion, and gave into his hands the winged crown of Gondor and the scepter of Anor_

Appendix A: Annals of the Kings and Rulers

~oOo~

_~ TA 3015, 6__th__ of Cermië: My lord came up behind me as I stood at the tall chest and listened to the birds sing up the dawn. I had left him in the bed and our son had not yet awaken. I had both wet and wrung out the cloth but could not think to raise it to my face, for I was sunk deep in thoughts that were heavy with regret. There he slipped his arm about me and, smoothing my hair back, pressed kisses to both cheek and neck. "I could stay a while longer,__ híril nín__, should you wish it," he said. I had awoken to discover our efforts had not borne fruit and it seems it had not passed his notice. _

~oOo~

My lord's son was indeed naked and slippery, wet from his hours spent in the garden with Elesinda. She looked the worse of the two, spattered with water and red-faced with the sun.

"Master Edainion!" she scolded when he leapt from the tub, slopping his bath upon her skirts.

"_Atto!"_ cried he, and, at the sight, my lord's face was no less bright than his son's.

He ran to his father, who dropped the bundle of reeds and string of river perch he carried to greet him, the boy leaping into his embrace. Laughing, my lord kissed the nose that turned up to him and complained his son was more difficult to catch than the fish he would have for his supper.

'Twas the noise, I believe, that brought Halbarad in from the pastures where he and Master Baran had been seeing to the horses' comfort. For his step was quick and his eyes bright in their search for his kin. Halbarad's stride brought him swiftly to the garden. Ducking his head beneath the sprays of rosemary that hung over the wicket, he came upon my lord and their embrace was swift and their voices glad. My lord took his kinsman's face in his broad palms and kissed each cheek ere he released him and Halbarad's eyes shown with the film of unshed tears, such was the joy of their greeting.

So fair and cool was the shade of the garden in the waning hours of the day, we gathered there amidst the faint scent of lavender warmed by the midsummer sun. I pour the water of the bath upon the plants, so I might watch without disturbing the joy my lord took in his son. 'Tis not only I who look on. Though I sent Elesinda indoors to bake the bean cakes savory with sage and wild garlic that we would have with our fish, Halbarad sits upon a turf seat below the branches of the plum. The leaves a hard and flickering green above his head, there he rubs a pungent grease into my lord's tack and makes it ready. The fruit hide their gold-green skins amidst the branches, their sweetness but a moon's turn away, and atimes metal chimes against metal as my lord's kinsman works.

Flowers of feverfew, mallow, madder and valerian spill upon the sunken paths, and I must be careful in my tread to not crush them they are so thick. Well has the earth rewarded my efforts and the water sinks deeply to the roots fed by the generous soil of my lord's house. My garden grows and the air is full of its promise, but it is none so fair as the sight of my lord and his son. For Edainion, now hastily clad in shirt and breeches, leans upon the bench where my lord dresses the river perch.

Naught would satisfy the boy until he had taken his wooden sword and flailed at the air afore his father. And soon enough, my lord found a branch of a length to satisfy him and joined his son. There wood clattered against wood as they pressed and feinted among the flowers.

"_Aye, there! Good!"_ my lord called. "_Keep off thy heels."_

A frown plucked at my lord's son's brow and naught but the very tip of his tongue could be seen poking from between his lips as he moved.

"_Come at me, now! Make it swift!"_ commanded my lord and a smile split his small foes' face asunder.

"_Beware my mighty blade!"_ cried my lord's son as he lurched forward.

With that, he thrust quickly at his father's knees and my lord was caught in the blow but laughed at the child's boldness.

"_Ah, indeed! But beware, I must now avenge myself upon thee,"_ said my lord and his son laughed giddily for it, torn, I think, between pride for challenging his father and fear of what may come next.

The branch came upon him swiftly and he was hard pressed to twist about so the blows swatted at his flank and arms. Once the boy dropped his sword, his father was upon him, tickling and rolling the lad into a ball of wriggling arms and legs.

"_Atto! Stop! Stop! May it please thee, stop!" _cried he, laughing so hard he gasped, and my lord, in his mercy, ceased his attack and smiled down on his son.

"_Come, now, onya! Thou canst keep me from striking thee."_ My lord rose and, releasing him, gestured for the boy to stand erect. "_Show me thy positions!" _

"_Aye, atarinya," _said Edainion and with quick glance to his kin, looking on from the shadows of the plum tree, found the man smiling upon him. At this the boy straightened his shoulders, picked up his sword and faced his father square on. For he and Halbarad had spent much of the winter training the boy's small limbs to the mastery of his wooden sword.

"I know the first," Edainion said and in a flash of feet and hands he stood lightly balanced afore his father. "And the second." Up went the wooden sword in a position of defense. "And the third!" Even more would have come had not my lord laughed and held up his hand.

"Good, good!" my lord said, and his son halted, beaming upon his father. "_Then shall I call them out to thee?"_

Edainion nodded and, biting up his lip, took up the position which even I, now my child had tutored me in their way, knew for the first.

"Very well!" said my lord and up came the branch.

He began slowly, being generous with the moments.

"Four!" my lord called and up came the little wooden sword and batted away his branch.

"Good! And two!"

Again he was warded off, and soon my lord set to calling out the positions in a steady rhythm while his son danced afore him. Atimes the boy faltered and scrambled desperately to beat away the branch, only to right himself and move with an intent smoothness that set his father's eyes to shining upon him. When the branch caught Edainion upon limb or knee, his father and kinsman made a great cry and they halted and Halbarad called the count of blows warded away.

"'Twas a good dozen that time, young master," he said. "Think you can better it?"

The boy nodded, eager for it, and they began again, each time attempting to best the count of the time afore.

They spent much of the hours ere our meal thus, Edainion ever biting at his lip and moving with an intent light in his eye, his father smiling in delight at the bright look upon his son's face, and Halbarad calling out the number of blows warded away. In the end, I knew not whose face beamed more with pride, his son or his kinsman, when my lord claimed great weariness at the exercise and called a halt to it.

His son now leans upon the bench and looks into his father's eyes and finds there a light of love that is as a swift bolt into my breast. There the setting sun sets afire their hair as my lord's hand comes upon his son's and together they dress the fish for our supper. Their voices come to me, low and joyful, and I am apart, and watch.

~oOo~

_Ai_. 'Tis well past time for Edainion to be indoors and sound asleep. The stars gleam above the black net of the trees and the moon sails upon the sky. Yet, my lord's son is not in his bed.

Instead, he sits beneath the old oak that spreads its limbs just beyond the garden. My lord went there to smoke his pipe and watch the moon rise o'er the field, but, though he had spent much of the day with him, his son would not be separated from his father. And so, there they sit, my lord with his back against the tree and the boy squirming against his side or with his head in his father's lap. There they must speak, my lord telling his son tales of faraway places or my lord's son plaguing him with a thousand questions and more. I know not, for I have not disturbed them, but left them to themselves. Yet, should I stand in the solar and lean but a little o'er the sill the faint smell of pipeweed drifts indoors and I can see them, two shadows against the darkening meadow.

It is not until the air grows chill I relent, even then reluctantly. They shall have so little time to grow to know each other again.

A cool breeze rises and stirs the forest and the fields of rye. Silver the tall grain waves beneath the press of the wind beneath the moon. Rain flies across the tops of the distant hills. I can smell it upon the wind and wonder my lord does not bring his son indoors because of it.

When I draw near, I hear little above the rustling of my own footsteps, the drone of insects, and the rush of the wind. I smile. Edainion must have fallen into the sudden slumber of the young, fighting to stay awake until his body betrayed him. I expect I shall find him curled in his father's lap and my lord leaning upon the sturdy oak, having set down his burden for a short while.

But I smell not the smoke of his pipe, nor do I see the sullen glow of burning leaf in the night. Dark and still is my lord's shadow against the moonlit field and I hear a sound I had not thought to hear.

I laugh softly. 'Tis my lord. He snores.

His pipe has long since grown cold and his arm slides slowly down his thigh where he clutches it. The trunk of a tree makes for an uncomfortable bed, but there his head rests, albeit awkwardly.

Ah, my lord is the hardiest of men of this Age. Fear and toil he faces without complaint. The enemies that breed beneath the Shadow he defies without faltering. Yet, 'tis a mere boy of little more than six years who lays him low.

~oOo~

A chill breeze flows across my skin and, waking, I turn upon my side and burrow beneath the blankets only to open my eyes, brought up short by my lord's shoulder. It seems I have become unused to sharing my bed and these few weeks of my lord's return has not taught me the way of it again. I peer at him in the dark, anxious that I have disturbed his sleep only to find my gaze returned as my lord turns his head. He lies upon his back, the window lined in the black arms of trees behind him where once he had been staring.

"You are wakeful, my lord?" I ask and lift a hand to smooth the coarse hair upon his breast.

He says naught, but, lifting my hand from him, pulls me into his side and settles my head upon him. There his fingers play upon the small hairs that line my brow and he returns to staring out at the night. The moment draws out and I think he has no answer to give me, but then a long wavering cry sounds out across the distant hills. I stiffen and his hand stills upon me. _Ai!_ Some beast stalks the Angle, where once there were none.

The Shadow presses close and though the promised weeks stretched to nigh onto two months, it seems my lord's time here has come to an end. So little time of peace and he already so weary.

"I have not prepared your farewell, my lord," I say when the howl fades, my voice soft so as to not awaken our son.

At that, my lord breaks his study of the outside world and, turning, puts me away so he can see my face.

"How stands my fortress, lady?" he asks, his voice a mere whisper, and grim.

His gaze is sharp even in the dimness of the night, but I have no fear to return it.

"The foundation is well-laid and the walls take shape, my lord," I say and, tracing a curl of hair that lies upon his neck, "and I hope to fortify its battlements e'en now."

He does not speak nor make any other sign, but I know of his approval in the subtle shift that plays across his face.

"Then be at peace, _híril nín_," he whispers. "I am well content with your farewell. You could give me no better."

I think he has done and shall roll to his back and close his eyes for the few hours of sleep he might claim ere he must leave. But it is not so, for my lord's eyes do not leave mine.

"Lady." Stirring from his stillness, he comes close, so he may speak low. "The days have been precious to me, but I have tarried here too long. Need sends me far from the lands of the North. I shall not return either this season or the next. Indeed, like as not, I shall not return until it be summer again or later still."

I have started and pulled away.

"So long, yet again?"

The words burst from me, and my lord's fingers press to my lips. We fall still a moment, listening to the faint rustle of our son turning about in his bed.

"Guard well your walls, lady," he whispers, and I find my lord's eyes keen upon me again, an avid light in an unquiet face. "We have found spies skulking upon the lands to our west, though know not to whom they report. Have a care what folk you send beyond the bounds of the Angle and where they go!"

I fall mute and cold, and his hand, though it alights upon my hair and his arm lies warmly upon my shoulder, I feel them not.

"You asked me, once, should there not be some folly, some arrogance of our Enemy's we could exploit," he says, his voice coming swiftly. "Do you recall it?"

I nod. I well remember that day, for it was my first in his house.

"I said, then, it was not within our reach."

"Aye, my lord," I say, my voice rising with my hopes.

"Ah, lady, mayhap it is what we seek, mayhap only," he warns. "It will cost us dearly should we be right, and it is what we seek, but dearer still should we have it wrong and we have committed our hopes to it. I beg you forgive me the months I have been away, but I have searched long and not found sign of answers and now must go further afield, into lands where I can send you no word. Indeed, my heart tells me the trail I seek lies beneath the very shadow of the Black Gates."

Understanding dawns upon me, robbing my voice of its strength. "Isildur's Bane," I say and, at my words, alarm flashes hard upon my lord's face.

He grasps my face in his palms. "What know you of this?" he whispers, his voice intent.

"Naught but the name of it, my lord," I say, for, indeed 'tis but the vaguest of tales told of Isildur's death. "And that he bore it north with him from that place."

"Better for you to forget all you know of it, lady." He looks upon me with an earnest apprehension, searching my face, as should it grieve him I might think I lack his trust, but that he fears for me should I not do as he bids.

I must bite at my lip, for I can think not of what trials I might face here upon the Angle, but of the extremity of the risk my lord shall expose himself to. The hate the Nameless One bears for the heirs of Isildur and the delight he takes in the suffering of men he would bend to his will are things of legend.

My lord's brow lowers and his thumb brushes upon my cheek and only now am I aware of the tears he attempts to still. "Hist, lady, listen to me. I leave my people in the care of you and my kinsman. Halbarad I have charged with their safety. You are my voice, here. Speak for me! Give my people hope to which they may cling. They must endure!" Words pour from my lord as had he but moments, not hours left in his house. "Should you be forced to it and must abandon the Angle, do so without regret. Should we be forced to rise from a scattered and beaten people, so be it, but at all other cost keep them alive!

"Remember, too, the House of Lord Elrond," my lord goes on. "He may yet provide you and my son with safe haven, should the need be great."

And when by my face my lord knows I would protest, for he can read my thoughts as had I spoken of my distaste for fleeing and leaving our people to their fate, he clutches my head and his eyes burn into mine.

"Watch over my son!" he whispers fiercely and ceases to speak until I nod.

"Ah, lady," he says, his hand growing gentle again and his thumb resuming its path across my cheek, "I ask much of the _lady of my House_, but she has not failed me yet."

With that, my lord draws me to his breast, tucking my head beneath his chin so he might hold me close.

He sighs and whispers into my hair, piercing my thoughts, "The time may be long ere I return, and I leave you a bitter task. What of my lady, what need she to complete her labors?

I shake my head against my lord and press my face into his breast. It seems enough to hold and be held, my arm wrapped tightly to his back and his jaw snug upon the crown of my head. I know each breath he takes, and his warmth shields me from the night's chill.

Within my lord's embrace, I know him no longer as a myth, but a man of deep wells of strength and feeling. The deepest places of his heart are no more mine to gain than they were when his company danced about us and he suffered for the wounds he had taken to meet our need, but I find I love him no less for it. For he has offered a share of the pain of his efforts and I would stand beside him against the Shadow had I naught more than my own bare hands with which to do battle.

"That, when—" I say and then fall silent, for, despite my best intentions, my voice breaks, and tears prick beneath the lids of my eyes. With a breath I go on, my voice harsh to my own ears, "That, when this task you set yourself is done, you return, my lord."

"Hush, _híril nín_," I hear, and my lord's arms tighten about me and his lips press into my hair. "That you have without the asking."

His embrace loosens at length when I do not reply, and he draws away. "Must I ask again?"

_Ai!_ It seems my reluctance to ask aught of him causes him dismay. What is left? What does my lord have to give that I treasure over all other things?

"_Hîr nín_," I whisper, "I would fill our hall with all the sons and daughters you would have of me, so none may know the loneliness you and I and your mother had to bear."

He says naught but cups my face in his hand ere reaching across me to pull the heavy drapes of our bed closed. There, his hands gentle upon my hair, he bends his lips to mine and presses soft, lingering kisses upon me and suffers my touches upon his cheeks and brow. There, once our kisses deepened and touch became more urgent, he turned to his back and drew me onto him. My lord lies beneath me, his hands resting upon me, quiescent, waiting for me to begin. I pull the covers over our heads to muffle the sounds of our love-making from the ears of our son as he sleeps. There in the dark where comes my lord's whispered breath to warm the small space about us, we draw out the other's pleasure and the constraint makes it all the sweeter.

~oOo~

"Hold still, little one!" I say and jerk my hand back from my lord's son's head.

He has twisted about and the points of shears are but inches from his face.

"Where is it? Have you done, _Ammë?_"

"No!" I say and shake my head, sighing. It is simply by chance I did not gouge a great slash across his cheek. "Turn about," I command, "you will see it when I am finished, but not ere then."

"_Onya_," I say, lighting upon an idea when he yet shifts restlessly, and I lose my hold. "Do you remember what the hares do when you go out into the pasture?"

He nods, his eyes brightening, for this scamp of a child oft likes to sneak upon them and chase the small animals into the brush, laughing at their bounding flight.

"Not that," I say and cluck my tongue when he seems about to leap about the room, and he grins. "What do they do at the very first when you appear?"

"Oh," he says and falls very still.

Were I not intent upon quickly completing my task without harming my child, I would laugh at the wide-eyed stare he mimics. It seems he is a Ranger born, alert to even the smallest nuance of the wild things that share our home.

"Done," I say and, released, he whirls about.

His face twisted in puzzlement at the thing I now hold, his hand reaches back to tug at his hair.

"_Atarinya_ will like it, _Ammë?_" he asks, perplexed by adult tastes that must seem so foreign to him. I think he would like it better were I to give his father a handful of honeyed hedgehog pastries to collect all manner of dirt and lint in his traveling pouch.

"I think so," I say and smile at my lord's son's skeptical look as I rise from my knees.

"Now, hurry, _onya_." I nod to the bed, and there Edainion rushes to sit upon his low mattress and pull on his boots. "Your _atto_ is near ready to go."

It seems I have just brushed out and straightened my skirts when my lord's son's feet pound down the stairs. He does not wait for me, but, most like, springs from the door into the hall, for I hear Halbarad's laughter and his deep tones bidding his lord's son a good morrow. After some time, I follow, my feet not much the slower in their trip down the stairs.

When I find them, they are clustered just outside the open door, his son at his father's side and Halbarad taking the reins from Master Baran. There my lord's gear is lashed tightly to the saddle. He shall ride to the edge of Eriador for speed, and, from there send the mount home with one of his men and take the rest of the way upon foot, for stealth.

"When you return home, _Atto_," Edainion asks, "you will take me to the forest?"

His father's face is greatly fond as he looks down upon his son. "What do you wish to see there?"

"I want to walk like a wolf," he says, his face alight and his shoulders hunched with an eager anticipation.

My lord laughs, but his smile is both adoring and uneasy when he lifts his son into his arms. There, Edainion runs a finger along the clasp that closes my lord's cloak, testing its edge as his father holds him.

"There will be many lessons I would teach you, Edainion," he says, and the child grows still.

"You will be much grown ere I return, _onya_, and you must make yourself ready for them," my lord says to the face just inches from his own that watches him intently.

"Try not to give Elesinda more grief, eh?" he asks. "You have many things to learn from your mother and Halbarad ere I return. I leave them here to care for you and teach you to be strong. Will you mind them?"

"Good," he says to Edainion's eager nodding. "Will you go to bed when your mother says it is time?" he presses. "Stay close to Halbarad when you are about? And learn to control your temper?"

My lord smiles at the less than enthusiastic agreement that greets these proposals.

"Good! I hope to see what you have learned when I return. But," my lord says and inclines his brow to his son's, "I shall not expect, my son, that you eat your pease." His eyes light with mischief and his son grins in return.

"No pease!" Edainion repeats, his voice exultant and his smile much pleased.

"No pease," my lord confirms, chuckling. His face twists with playful disgust. "Especially as they become a cold, thick paste."

At that, his son tucks his head into his father's shoulder, wrapping his arm about my lord's neck and squeezing tight. His father rubs the small back vigorously.

"_Farewell, my son, and may the Valar keep thee in their care_," my lord whispers onto the head that lies against him ere kissing it.

Gently uncoiling the child's arms, my lord sets his son to the ground and leaves him there with a lingering touch to his hair and soft smile for the eyes that gaze up on him steadily.

"Go with Halbarad, he will see to your meal. It is set out and ready for you."

It is plain Edainion does not wish to go, nor does his father wish to see him gone, but his son has just given his word to obey and he would not be so early foresworn. He steps away to Halbarad's side, awaiting his kin's pleasure. There he leans into the tall man's leg and permits the hand that rests lightly upon his hair.

My lord and Halbarad have had their farewell. They spoke much of the morning, their voices low and swift over ale and maps and tablets. The look they now share is of such depth of feeling that words seem unfit. And so they do not speak but linger in a hard embrace and clap the other upon shoulder and back.

"Be well," Halbarad says and hands him the reins to his mount.

My lord nods sharply, looking away as his kin leads his son indoors with a gentle hand upon the child's head.

And now my lord stands afore me as were he unsure how to end this ritual. His face has grown quiet and grim.

"_And how do I say farewell to thee?" _

I shake my head. "As e'er you have, my lord," I say, for I am determined this parting shall be no different at its beginning, just as it shall find its resolution when my lord returns as it has so many times afore.

My lord's face softens and his hand brushes upon my arm. I think he is about to give me his embrace in farewell.

"My lord," I say swiftly. "I have prepared somewhat for your farewell. Will you receive it?"

A frown of surprise passes quickly across my lord's face. "Have you any doubts on that score, lady?"

"No, my lord," I say and, raising my hand, reveal the small thing that lies curled upon my palm where I kept it hidden until now. It is a thin length of hair, dark strands braided tightly in the manner in which Master Dwalin had tutored me, and sewn with a band of blue linen thread upon the ends to keep it secure about my lord's wrist for his journey.

My lord takes it in his fingers, turning it about and running his thumb lightly over its surface. His eyes flicker from the coil to my hair, measuring their lengths and finding somewhat there that leaves him puzzled.

"My lord," I say, "it is mine and your son's entwined," and his sudden smile dazzles me with its brilliance.

"I shall treasure it, lady," he says and clutches the small braid to his palm as he bows. He then pulls his sleeve from his wrist and watches as I tie it about him.

When done, my lord runs his fingertips along the band and then, shaking his sleeve down again o'er his wrist to hide it, pulls me into an embrace. I think his arms shall crush me should he tighten them just a little more. I am unsure I do not return the favor.

"Guard well the walls of your fortress, _híril nín_," I hear low, close to my ear.

My lord's embrace loosens, and I know I must let him go. But I cannot let him go far. Ere he lets me loose, I clasp the sides of his face and pull his head low.

"_Farewell, __hír nín__,"_ I say and kiss his brow._ "May the Valar watch over thee and guide thy steps, no matter what dark place is the path they trace. May they lead thee to aid unlooked for, shield thee from harm and fear, and may they see thee safely home." _

I have no word to name the look upon my lord's face when I release him and he draws away, for I can see naught but a wavering blur of light and dark mixed. Gentle thumbs come to brush my eyes and soft lips press their lids closed as were he giving mute blessing. With that, my lord is gone from my touch, and the loss is as a wrenching away of some vital limb.

~oOo~


	38. Chapter 37

~ Chapter 37 ~

_Moreover, in Númenor of old the sceptre descended to the eldest child of the king, whether man or woman. It is true that the law has not been observed in the lands of exile ever troubled by war; but such was the law of our people, to which we now refer, seeing that the sons of Ondoher died childless._

_To this Gondor made no answer._

Appendix A: Annals of the Kings and Rulers

~oOo~

_~ TA 3016, 28__th__ of Súlimë: Learn this lesson well, Edainion, for you are the son of the Lord of the Dúnedain and must take our history to heart. The Witch-king of Angmar cursed our land, slaying our people and throwing down our tower upon Amon Sûl. There we lost much the three kingdoms prized. Thus began his long war to reclaim the wandering folk who had defied him in Umbar and those who had sheltered them in their flight hither to the North that lead to our ruin. But he would have found no foothold had we remained a unified people and not fought over the Weather Hills ourselves._

~oOo~

Ara-gost, Ara-vorn, Ara-had," my lord's son laboriously recites, checking over his work as he rubs absently at scraped and bruised skin upon his brow. I have set him to putting to memory the lines of the Kings of the Northkingdom and the Chieftains of the Dúnedain.

Thunder rattles the rafters, sending a fine sift of chaff and dust to float shimmering above our heads. Cold and wet is the wind that seeps through the shuttered windows of my lord's hall and my nose and fingers are red and chill for it, though I have built up the fire and am wrapped about in wool. We sit together after the even's meal, my lord's table lit by the flicker of oil lamps, Edainion with his lessons and I with my journal.

It has rained all through the day and looks to continue through the night. My lord's son has been restless. He played upon the floor about the hearth, lining his carved figures into battles and I was much pressed to pay no heed to his harsh yells and the clatter of his toys. When that no longer held his mind, he donned the rough quilted tunic I had made for him, its folds filled with river-sand to accustom his young limbs to the weight and took up his wooden sword.

There he dashed about the hearth and thrust and feinted at shadows until he had tripped o'er the bench and startled Elesinda at her work one too many times and then finally knocked into the chest, setting the precious little crockery we have to jangling. At that, for the hope it might ease the pain in my head, I sent him up to the solar, where, beneath the rustle of rain in the thatch, he might beat upon the mattress and the fur that covered it to no great harm. And for much of the hour after, the boards groaned beneath his light feet and the bed took much abuse. But even that only held his mind so long, and soon he wandered about the hall, listless in his lack of occupation, and came to hang upon my arm.

"_Onya_," I said, "do not pull on me so." For, upon Elesinda's leaving and the end of preparations for the day to come, I have sat myself down with my ledgers and begun the day's accounting. Should he tug on my arm, soon I would smear ink o'er the page and I greatly hoped not to force stiff fingers to do work again I completed the once.

My lord's son's head came to lean upon my shoulder and I was forced to look upon him, for he peered most intently up at me. His eyes were deep, piteous wells of grief and apprehension.

I sighed. "Very well," I said and laid aside my quill. "Go find your father's chest."

His face brightened of an instant and he leapt from my side. I laughed. 'Twas not long ere he sat snugged up against my side upon the cushioned bench, a small chest opened afore him. My lord, I think, had tired of finding his things in disarray upon his return, for we could not keep his child's curious fingers out of his father's belongings.

I would enter the hall only to find Edainion starting with guilt and pulling his hand from out his father's pack or slamming the door of the tall chest closed. The chest was not his to disturb, for the scrolls and bound books were not for a child's fingers. And I know not what my lord kept in his pack, but it was of enough peril or import that, upon learning of it, he was greatly dismayed. It was Halbarad who lit upon the idea of keeping a chest of small, castoff things of my lord's. And it was my lord's thought to add things atimes to it and allow his son to open it seldom, so it remained fresh and distracted the child's mind from those things he could not have.

"_Ammë_," he said, pulling a worn fragment of woven leather from the chest. It was a bit of gear from some horse long gone, whether part of bridle or strap or what, I knew not. "What is this?"

"_Thou knowest what it is_," I said, for my lord had told him the tale of it in my hearing.

"I know, _Ammë_, but I want you to tell me," he said and then added in a rush when he saw my look, "_Should it please thee, amminya_."

I think it might have pleased me better to be done with my books. For my hands ache with their use. I had taken again to drinking a tea of willowbark with my meals, but it seemed not as effective as afore. And so, when Mistress Nesta urged me to greater rest, I found the days to be long, for even my hands protested what work I might put them to. But, still, I took the strap from my lord's son and ran my fingers along its fine work, for the leather was evenly cut and braided into an intricate pattern. I had liked it so much upon first seeing it I snuck into my lord's chest of myself one night in the hall when my lord's son was asleep and added a sketch of its twining to my mother's journals.

"Well, _onya_," I said. "I know not its full tale, for that you must ask your father. But, I know it was once his when he traveled far from this house and far from the house of his childhood, there in the hidden valley of the Elves. He was a young man. Not so young as Ranger Gelir, Lothel's uncle. Nor so old as her grandsire, Master Maurus."

My lord's son snorted in sudden disbelief. "No one is as old as Master Maurus!'

"And who says so?" I asked, but I thought my lord's son could tell the mischief I would make, for I was sure it shone in my eyes when I looked upon him.

"All the Angle knows that, _Ammë_!"

"Indeed?" I asked, and he gave me a look of great weariness. "Then they are mistaken, _onya_. For your father is the elder of the two. Did you not know that?"

His look was doubtful, but he did not protest, but looked up at me with wide eyes. True it is, my lord is not the elder by more than a season, but I thought then it mattered little. Should I tell him his father could grow wings and fly about the air above the Misty Mountains as do the Great Eagles, he would believe it.

"Your father is of the line of Elendil, undiminished, _onya_. With it comes long life. He will not grow old for many years."

My lord's son's face was then blank and wide open with awe. I could laugh for it, were it not also true he most like would share of his father's years.

"Shall I finish my story, then?" He nodded vigorously.

"Very well. And being young, your father wished to know more of the world and traveled far from the lands his father knew. But 'tis great peril for any son of Isildur to walk upon the lands of Arda and his name be known. For the Nameless One is restless and loves not the men of the West. And the name Elendil and Isildur are heard by him with much wrath. Ever has he plotted for their Houses to fall. He sent of his lieutenant, the Witch-King of whom you know, and our cities were taken from us. He sends armies of fell creatures to assault the lands of Gondor, and they have lost of the wild beauties of Ithilien, their capitol, Osgiliath, and the last of their kings. And so, your father took another name and guise and set his feet on unknown paths.

"But do not think, my child, that peril comes ever from without, for we, the men of Westernesse, gave aid unwitting to our Enemy. It was our foolishness and pride, too, that cost us the kingdom of Arnor and kings of the South. Had we stood as one in the North and had the kings of Gondor seen to their House's need for heirs and made not foolish vows, we might have them yet."

"Is that why _atarinya_ went first to the land of the Horse-Masters?" my lord's son asked, taking the strap from me and twisting it about. Both eyes and hands were tender upon it.

"Mayhap," I said. "Many good lessons could be learned of the Rohirrim. For though they have strife amongst them, they have ever stood firm as one. Mayhap, though they be all separate threads, they bind one tother as tight as this weaving." He looked at its knots with new eyes, traveling the tale of its complex winding, for no one thread repeated its journey and none were like the other, but, together, they were the stronger for it. And there I left my story, for it seemed its lesson was well-taken, and set my lord's son to the lesson of his own folk.

"Ara-," my lord's son now recites and halts, for having told the tale of his father's things, we have set them aside. He draws in a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut, resolute in his determination to master the names without reading them from the page afore him. "Ara-Ara-ssuil," he says then with rising certainty and opens his eyes quickly to check.

A breeze, chill and wet, comes upon us through the shutters and we work to the music of the patter of drops striking the ground and the snap of the fire. Beyond doors, light flashes bright, bringing the lines of the shutters into relief at one moment and setting their wood shuddering in their moorings the next. Ah, bless the rain. 'Tis the first we have had this season and the ground is thirsty. I hope only the soil shall absorb much of it and our dikes shall hold the rest.

"_Ammë_?" he asks, looking up from the ragged and much scraped hide. I had hoped, though it seems in vain, I be allowed to complete my work. "Did you name me?"

"No, _onya_. 'Tis not the way of our people, you know this. Your _atto_ did, as did his father afore him and all their fathers afore them. Why do you ask?"

"All the names of the chieftains begin with 'ara-'," says he, his eyes moving about the column of words he has just written, "but my name does not."

I blink at him, stunned, unable to speak though he looks to me for an answer. 'Tis true, this thing he says. With the word of the Elves, each chieftain bore kingliness in his name, but for my lord's son.

"I know not why," say I. "You must ask your father when he returns."

This seems to satisfy him and his head bows again over the page. I do not so readily return to mine. Verily, I shall ask his father myself. The "son of Man." What could my lord have meant by it? Had it been the foreshadowing of his heart or the reason of the mind that drove him to his choice?

"_Ammë_," Edainion says, "_Atto_ said 'twas Arnath decided we were not to be kings."

"Aranarth," say I, gently correcting him and he scrunches his face up for the effort of hearing the difference.

"_Atto_ said it was a hard choice to keep the Men of the North hidden and not be king. _Atto_ said a man who can be humble and give up his hopes for the good of others should be remembered with honor, even were he not a king.

"I remember him," says he proudly.

At this, I give up all pretense of writing in my journal. I had not thought to gain insight into my lord's heart through his son, but there it is. Tears prick at my eyes.

"And so I hope you remember your father when he has passed, and you carry his name, _onya_," I say and hope the smile I turn upon my lord's son is fond.

His gaze lowers at the kiss I press to his hair, though he says naught and submits willingly, and now I truly smile for his newfound modesty. There was a time when he would have giggled and lifted his cheek for more.

Aye! To keep the folk of the Dúnedain of the North. 'Tis the charge my lord left me, though I am unsure how well I shall fulfill it. For the skies do not seem to look upon us with much kindness. Of the winter, it was cold and it seemed the constant biting wind blew all hope of rain from the skies. Then, when the wind relented and the sun emerged, the spring wheat and flowers of the fruiting trees were burned, not by its rays, but by an untimely and bitter frost.

Our folk tell of great fires burning upon the heights of the mountains of Angmar so that plumes of smoke and ash could be seen issuing from it from afar. Ever since, a pall reaches from the north as a great hand and weakens the sun. Though he wakens to skies of a brilliant hue, the sun shines upon us as a thin, white disk at his height and we are chill for it.

And yet we have had precious little rain. Until last even, when the clouds gathered upon the far horizon and stained the sky with their golds, pinks, and reds, we had seen naught of rain this spring. Aye, at Master Herdir's urging, we delayed not the planting. Wheat, lentils, and beans lay upon their earthen beds beneath a thin blanket of soil, but there has been little of water to coax them to rise from the ground. 'Tis already late in the season for their growing. I have little heart for the tale of my journal, but it must be told.

But, not all goes ill, for soon upon my lord's leaving I found his attentions had taken root and I bear him yet another child. The swell of belly beneath my skirts is a fond reminder of the days of late summer when the sun was a blessing and its heat ripened all things.

"_Ammë_?"

"Yes, _onya_?" I am beginning to wonder should my lord's son ever settle into his lessons.

"Why cannot _Atto_ be king? The House of Elendil ruled all of the Dúnedain, in the Southkingdom, too? Gondor does not have a king and it has a kingdom."

I think to explain the vagaries of the descent from the House of Isildur, son of Elendil, and the convoluted politics of pride and kinstrife in Gondor and the murder of his heirs when a king dare wed a women not of the Dúnedain, but think better of it. That tale is for another time.

"Ah, well, Arvedui, the last king, attempted to claim the throne of Gondor through the rights of his wife, daughter to the king of the Dúnedain of the South, but they would not recognize the claim of a woman to the throne."

I think him satisfied and so return to leaning over my figures. Ah, so few. I have redone the addition thrice over and still the numbers have yet to lie to me.

"They say that _Atto_ should lead the Council. And that when he is not here, another man should take his place."

I sigh. I doubt not the folk say such a thing, but it is difficult to take coming from the voice of a child of six years. In any case, 'twould be a very great surprise should any man be willing to take up the trust at such a time when it is obvious the next year shall be a troubled one.

"They say Elder Bachor waits for the right time to take over the Council, so then a man of the people will keep them safe."

Of course. Who else?

I suppose I should count myself lucky it is he who takes up their cause. Had not Bachor been a son of the wandering clan of the _Randírim_ and not borne their dark eyes and bronze skin himself, I might be battling more than just accusations of being a woman.

I set aside my quill upon its rest and look at my lord's son. He returns my look with one that is uncertain, as had he heard somewhat he would wish to test upon me. Aye, there are matching cuts upon his brow and knuckles. He bears a bruise upon his jaw I had thought due to his rough play, but now do not.

"People say many things when they are frightened," I say. "What think you of what they say, _onya_?"

"But I am the protector of the House," he protests, looking upon the page afore him and playing along its corner with his finger. "You said so."

"Do you wish to sit upon the Council in my stead, then?" I truly I wish to know, but then must bite at my lip for the flash of terror the question raises upon the boy's face as he turns it upon me of a sudden. "I could arrange it, should you wish."

"_Should it please thee, no, Ammë_," my lord's son says. "Why must they argue about everything?"

I laugh, for the boy has stuck out his tongue with such loathing I have not seen since the last I had attempted to serve him a dish of pease.

"Never fear, _onya_, give it but a few years and you will have your turn."

"I would not let them talk so much," he insists and returns to flipping the edge of his parchment, curling it against its edge.

"Aye, well, they have strong feelings about all that is put to them, but with good reason. Some day you will see your father at the Council and learn to heed the advice he gave me, to listen first ere speaking."

This he considers solemnly, and his finger stills.

"_Onya_, listen to me carefully," I say and turn to him more fully. "There are times 'tis better to let people talk. The House has the right to wield the power of life and death o'er the folk of the Dúnedain. It is a weighty burden. You are our lord's son, and you will bear it one day. No one who speaks to you will forget it. At all times it is as were you bearing a sword in your fist. You must be careful when you threaten your folk with it."

With this, I slip my fingers beneath the hand that plays upon the edge of his work and run my thumb lightly over the rough skin upon his knuckles, all while holding his eyes. He jerks his hand away and hides it in his lap, his face fallen as he turns away to stare at his fists. He is silent for a long moment.

"_Art thou angered with me_, _Mamil?_" he asks in a soft voice when I do not speak but continue to look at him.

"No. Will you tell me?"

He squirms and screws up his face. Whatever he considers, it causes him distress, for he picks at the bits of skin upon his knuckles and looks to be close to tears.

"They said bad things about you," he mumbles at last.

_Ai, onya_. My heart drops. I knew it would come, this moment, but had not thought it to be so soon.

"Let them talk," I say, and his face rises from where he had been studying his knuckles, and I think him about to protest. "Nay, _onya_. Our folk are frightened and must be allowed their words. You, too, may use words to defend the House. But until you are old enough to decide on your own, I say this, you must forebear from using your fists unless it be to defend those who are threatened with hurt. Aught else must be left to Halbarad or I, until your father returns. _Dost thou understand_?"

"_Aye, Ammë_," he says quietly, but then launches himself to wrap his arms about my middle as far as they can reach and press his head to my breast, setting my quill to fluttering off its rest.

"You will not tell _Atto_, _should it please thee_, _Ammë?_" comes his voice muffled against the wool I have wrapped around me.

I squeeze him in return and bend to press a kiss to his hair. "I need not, should you wish it."

He shakes his head sharply and burrows in just a little deeper.

"Will you tell Halbarad what was said and who did the saying?" I ask, and he nods against me, albeit with more reluctance.

"Now, _onya_," I say and put him away from me, pleased to see that he is clear-eyed, though more somber than I have oft seen him. "I shall tell your father you do not finish what is put to you should he find fault with your lessons upon his return." I tap at the table beside his scrap of parchment.

His smile beams from him and I wonder should the boy ever take my attempts at sternness with any seriousness. Still, he bows his head over his work with an eager will.

Having won a short space of time in which to work my figures, I find I have little taste for it and wonder had I set Edainion beside me because of it, only wishing to be interrupted so I may not need to examine them too closely. I stare at the numbers. Aye, that is their tale. Mayhap it would be best simply to plan for it and urge the rationing of last winter's grains so we may make up for the lack. _Ai!_ And shall the Council agree?

The clack of the latch startles my lord's son so badly a pool of ink spreads from where he now copies the names of the chieftains of the Watchful Peace. I am the more lucky and had lifted my quill, but am no less startled, for the thunder had masked any warning of footstep we may have received.

"Halbarad!" he cries and swiftly climbs over the bench, abandoning parchment and quill.

The man is soaked for the rain and his look grave upon his entering, but his face lights at my lord's son's greeting and quickly he throws off his pack.

"Hold now, Master Edainion," he commands when the child would fling himself about his legs. "I am wet through and will only make you so, too." He tugs at the ties of his cloak with stiff fingers.

I set aside my quill and rescue the other from making a greater mess, and rise, though more slowly, burdened as I am. For my lord's kinsman looks much chilled and could no doubt use some warming.

Once he has hung his cloak upon the peg, Halbarad drops to his knee and then welcomes his lord's son's embrace.

"_It gladdens my heart to see thee, young master." _

"Did you kill trolls while you were gone, Halbarad?" my lord's son asks once he is released and his kinsman rises. I cluck my tongue at the thoughtlessness of his query from where I pour water into a pot and place it upon the grate.

"No, I did not," Halbarad says, coming to the hearth. "I found none and was glad for it. And so should you be, Master Edainion."

There I await, and he takes up the linen I had pulled from a chest. He scrubs at his hair and face with it while Edainion hangs upon the man's belt. Little effect does his chastisement seem to have had, for the child tugs at the tall man's purse strings.

"What do you, young master?" Halbarad says and Edainion stills, tilting his chin so he might peer up into his kin's face high above him. Though the words may speak of censure, my lord's son hears it not, for they were delivered with much fondness. The boy grins broadly at his kin.

"Did you not make me somewhat?" he asks.

"I was certainly gone long enough. I suppose I had the time to put to good use. In truth, I had little else to occupy my time other than the tracking of our enemies, the care of your father's Rangers, and the safety of all the lands of Eriador from the Misty Mountains to the Gulf of Lune."

My lord's son hangs upon the man's belt, turning upon him the look of weary forbearance he had directed to his mother earlier. He suffers so for the dimness of thought of both mother and kin. Halbarad laughs for it, his voice deep and merry.

"Aye, how could I not?" he says and sits upon a bench afore the fire. Laying aside the linen, he opens his pouch beneath my lord's son's intent gaze. For the boy has come to his side and leans against his shoulder.

"There it is," Halbarad says and the boy can barely contain his glee. Yet he glances from the small toy in his hand to his mother, for he holds a fair copy of a were carved in wood and doubts should I approve.

But I have little opinion on the matter and indeed peer over Edainion's head at the toy. It looks not much like my thoughts had made it, but I must defer to my lord's kin in this matter.

"Your skill continues to improve," say I, to which Halbarad responds with a quick glance my way and crinkling of the lines about his eyes as he smiles down upon his kin's son.

"Now, add it to your others, young master." He nods at the figures littered about the floor by the hearth. "And, should it please you, gather them up, for I think it comes soon upon your time for sleep."

"_Ammë?_" my lord's son pleads, and I think him much dismayed he shall have little of the man's time tonight.

"Aye,_ onya_, 'tis time," say I and smooth his curls upon his neck for the fallen look that comes over his face. "But you shall see Halbarad upon the morrow."

"Will you teach me my lessons with my sword, Halbarad?" he asks, finding at least one promise of hope.

"Aye, after we have eaten, and I have had the chance to see to the folk of the Angle," comes his muffled reply. The man has leaned over to pull off his boots, for they are much soaked and muddied.

"I have been practicing as you told me."

"We shall see, then, shall we not?" Halbarad says, his eyes alighting upon the lad and pleasure coming upon my lord's son's face at the smile he finds there.

The boy then sets to clearing the floor of his toys with a good will and I lay a thick blanket beside Halbarad.

"Sit you down, my lady," Halbarad says when I fuss with pot, for it seems not over a good portion of the coals and shall take all night to boil. "I shall see to that and you are not to be on your feet."

Off comes the boot and Halbarad wipes his hand upon his breeches ere offering it to me to aid me in settling beside him.

Slow am I to move, lingering in my bed as much as I am able and shuffling about the hall in these the last weeks of my confinement, and timid am I to lower myself too far down for fear I shall be unable to rise. I am oft weary and have relied much upon Elesinda and Mistress Pelara to provide for the care required by my lord's hall.

When first she learned of my quickening, Mistress Nesta looked long upon me, her face tightened with what she dare not say. It passed and she then sat me down, demanded she see my lord's records for herself and refused to leave until I found them. It was for naught. Neither Mistress Nesta nor I could make hide nor hair of my lord's notes, written as they were in the same script as their source. And so, she made the attempt of addressing the swelling of my hands and feet much as my lord had when I carried his son. I cannot say it did not help, but to not near as great of an effect as afore. I know not should we have missed somewhat in the preparation of the remedies, or 'twas no use unless it were to be my lord's hands that prepared them.

Halbarad busies himself with ridding himself of damp boots and socks and wrapping himself about with the blanket while my lord's son stuffs the toys he had wrought for him in a sack. Its sides bulge and I smile, for I think I shall need fashion him another pouch of greater size should his kinsman continue to indulge him so. When Edainion has finished and gazes upon us, his look seems uncertain, for I am sure he finds the quiet on our bench and the fondness of our mutual regard upon him a trifle unnerving.

"Come, _onya_," I say, "bid Halbarad good night and I shall soon follow."

My lord's son comes to his kinsman's side and their parting is without words, for the boy lays his head upon the tall man's breast and wraps his arms about his middle. Fond and warm is the embrace that is returned.

"What say you to your kin for his kindness?" I ask when he has turned away and makes to leave the hall.

He turns about and bows but does not linger. "_My thanks to thee,_ Ranger Halbarad."

"Shall you come and tell me a story?" Edainion asks me, his hand linger upon the frame of the door to the solar.

"Aye," I say, though I would have thought he had his fill of stories. "Get yourself ready." And he disappears up the stairs and leaves us to the quiet of the hall.

"And what did you find north of the Road, Halbarad, were they not trolls?" I ask at length, for the look Halbarad had given me over my lord's son's head when they first embraced had been grim.

"Orc," he says. "But only what they left behind."

And ere I may ask, he rises from the bench and takes up a fold of linen so he may move the pot, for the water has taken to galloping therein. It is awkward work, for the blanket swings from his shoulders and threatens to catch in the fire. When I offer the small bundle of dried mint and apple he prefers I leave him be. His look is bleak.

'Tis not until he has settled with his chilled fingers wrapped around a warming cup sweetened with honey he speaks.

"'Twas Gelir," he says and blows upon the tea.

My heart sinks, and for a long moment, filled by the sound of the crackling of the fire upon the hearth and the spatters of rain blown against the shutters, I cannot speak.

"You have seen them?"

"Aye, I have just come from there. We brought him home," he says after taking a cautious sip.

Ah, but they shall have little sleep this night.

"A curious thing it was," Halbarad says grimly, halting my attempt to push myself from the bench. "He had not a mark on him but the blow that overthrew him."

A chill comes upon my heart, for I have learned much living in my lord's house. I ask, though fain I know the answer. "What do you make of it?"

"They had not the time to linger for their sport. Some secret purpose drove them. I know it not," he says, but by the clenching his jaw he is sure to spend much effort in the attempt to discover it. He rolls the cup between his broad palms, lost in thought.

Sighing, I rise from the bench. "They shall bury him upon the morrow?"

"Aye, so they said, should the rain let up." He downs the last of the tea in his cup and rises for more.

I nod and leave him to it, ascending the stairs slowly so I may attend upon my lord's son. There is little I can say to ease the heart of the Ranger who stays below. He will not find rest for his grief until he has exacted his price upon those who caused it. Moreso, for, in his desperation, he had ordered the men to venture atimes on their own upon the Wild, and 'twas Gelir who first paid the price for it.

~oOo~


	39. Chapter 38

~ Chapter 38 ~

'_A time may come soon,' said he, 'when none will return. Then there will be need of valour without renown, for none shall remember the deeds that are done in the last defence of your homes. Yet the deeds will not be less valiant because they are unpraised.'_

ROTK: The Passing of the Grey Company

~oOo~

_~ TA 3016, 29__th__ of Súlimë: Handful of sorrel leaves without the twigs, sliced into thin ribbons and ground til coarse. Bring one mark cream to simmer. Heat three pads butter in its own pot til melted, then add sorrel til dark green. Add cream and bring to bare simmer. Add stock until thinned and easily poured but thickened so lays atop meat and trencher. _

~oOo~

"_Onya_!"

"_Ammë_, 'tis a bird."

At the crackle of winter-dry bracken beneath his feet, my lord's son winces and holds himself very still. The path to the Angle's square is empty of folk and, _ai_, the journey is short, but we have bare begun it. High and blue is the sky, swept clean of its veil by the winds that blew in yestereve's storm. The bright sun of early spring should warm my face and hands but sees fit to do naught but strike upon my eyes and cause them pain. For the wind comes down upon us from the Misty Mountains. Chill with the snows that lie upon their heads, I despair of finding a cloak that shall keep me warm, swollen belly and all.

We are alone as are not oft left to ourselves, for Halbarad rose early and departed the hall with little comment and no farewell. Though, I must confess, I expected none. The youth and the cart he was to bring was late in the coming. We seemed to have been forgot, and so set out on our own. With his feet unweighted by years and swollen belly, Edainion most oft sprang ahead and sought somewhat to fill his mind while he waited for me to come upon him. Already am I winded. Oh, but I am slow upon my ungainly feet and unused to the exercise for the weeks of rest forced upon me.

"_Onya_!" I call wearily after him. 'Tis not the first I have appealed for his attention. For I cannot follow a slight boy of his years into the woods that line the path we must follow.

Ah! We are late and not like to make up the time on the path there.

We awoke to find my lord's son had misplaced his belt. And though I had laid all out the night afore, upon the morn I came upon his best cloak lying beneath his muddy boots. Its good thick cloth was, to his surprise, thus soiled and damp. There was naught for it but to hang it afore the fire while I sent Edainion in a search through the house for his belt and brush away the dirt once it had dried. It is a good, I think, Halbarad had left for the barrows upon the sun's rising, for I had arisen from my bed with a temper already thinned by my poor sleep and more than once did my lord's son catch the edge of my sharp tongue.

"_Onya_! _Whatever it is, leave it be._"

"I almost have it, _Ammë_."

Here he crouches and reaches cautious hands to the nest of leaves beneath the gorse bush, but a sudden rush of flapping sets my lord's son back on his heels. The twittering flight of the panicked dove speeds through the dark and naked trees.

"_Onya!_ Come! It shall be a great insult to the Elder's House should we be much later. They are already gathered and soon shall take Ranger Gelir to the barrows."

At this, my lord's son's face, once lit with pleasure at his skill, now falls somber and he turns away from the brush. Ducking and pushing at the thin whips of ash and pine, he makes his way back to the path where I await him.

I drop the basket I carry as he draws near.

"_Ai! Onya!_" I cry.

The boy's clothes are full of pine needles and leaves and pulled into disarray by the thorns of the gorse bush. In his distraction, he has placed a dark smudge of dirt across his brow from I know not what. He screws up his face when I wet my thumb and rub at his skin, taking up a corner of his cloak to finish the work, but he knows better than to resist.

"I can get them, _Ammë_," he protests when I then set to batting away the leaves clinging to his tunic.

Too many hours have I spent in the making of his clothes, and so I say naught and shake at the folds of his cloak. His tunic matches the brilliant blue of his father's, as does the silken lines of stars I have set in thread to the collar and breast. His best clothes and we are not even a furlong distant from the house.

"I thought its wing was broken," he says, his voice small.

I let loose his cloak to find my lord's son looking upon me anxiously. He has somewhat of his father's coloring, with cheeks that turn a dusky rose upon the brush of early spring air. He colors now, and not for the chill wind.

"_Ai, __onya_," I sigh.

I bite at my lip, looking upon him. Only now, as his eye shine with incipient tears, do I wonder what had prevented me settling upon his second-best cloak and sparing him my tongue. Or mayhap I could have thought to check his clothes upon our rising. Or given the boy somewhat to do upon the journey to occupy his mind and hands so he would not go searching out somewhat else. A hundred decisions I could have made and not brought tears of shame to my son's eyes.

"No matter," I say. "'Twas a good deed attempted, but I think it like to be a feint and its nest is nearby."

By his uncertain look I am unsure as to whether or not he places any trust in my words, but I have not the time to explain myself. And so, instead, I offer a smile in its place and ease a wayward curl into place.

"Remember what I told you?" I ask and tug at the hem of his tunic.

"Aye, _Ammë_. I remember."

"There will be stories and sweets and singing, but, unlike other times, we do not go there to play. Stay by my side, unless I say otherwise. 'Tis not a pleasant duty, but one you must learn. You must be your father's son and do what you can to give them comfort. I know you wish to make your father proud, but it will not be easy."

"I know, _Ammë_," he says, and I leave off my lecturing. He knows as much as a child his age can bend their mind to it, and by his earnest look will give it his best attempt. I pull his cloak about him and touch my knuckles to his cheek.

"Then let us go."

"Aye, _Ammë_," he says and submits to me taking his hand.

I take up the basket and we set down the path again.

Naught stirs upon the ploughed soil as we pass, no sight of our folk to be seen upon the fields. The scent of wet earth hangs o'er the morning and the distant sound of men rings atimes o'er the meadow. For Master Herdir has set them to the sluice gates of the head ditches that meander upon the upper reaches of our fields. Where the water had trickled shallow and cold for the hunger of the river with no winter snow to feed it, it now runs swift with the rain. There they repair the dams and gates that, when opened, flood the furrows ere trailing away to the tail ditches. Water pools in rows across the fields. Silver as burnished steel the sky reflects in the ribbons of water and the sun strikes at the eye as it floats upon their surface.

Singing arises from the path ahead and from around the bend stride cotters and ploughmen. A young lad with shorn curls calls the chorus and the men slap upon their thighs in time with the beat of their legs as they sing the refrain. Grimed by the mud in which they have worked and carrying hoes and shovels upon their shoulders, they make for the tail ditches at the lower end of the spring fields.

As we pass, they fall silent and one, and then another brings a free knuckle to their brow. Aye, I know that look and have oft seen it turned to my lord. _Ai!_ He is so young for such a burden as this. Their eyes drink in the sight of him, my lord's son with his feet swiftly striding beside me.

"Good morrow, young master! Give us a smile!" comes the call from their midst and I must master the sudden urge to hide him behind my skirts.

For, atimes, whether under the influence of too much ale or too much familiarity, my lord's folk make too free with his son's person, hands ruffling his hair or clutching upon his coat. But, here, naught happens worse than they break into laughter at the boy's somber nod ere his features light with a grin at the face some young man pulls to tease him into a response.

They nod and give their greetings as they pass. And when the last straggler has leapt to jogging to catch up with the crowd, a high voice gives the call. They go again to their singing and I can breathe more freely.

It is with much relief that I find we are not too late. The mourners are many. They have spilled out upon Elder Maurus' toft. There sits the old man upon the bench against the wall where he is wont to warm himself in the sun. The skin of his face seems as weathered wood and the years lie more deeply etched therein than I had seen afore.

Beside him sit his daughter's eldest son and his wife, who have left the Angle's baking to other hands today. His round and jovial face is quiet as he sits there. But they are not alone, for there gathered about them are the men of the Rangers, youth and elder alike, the few here for a short time upon the Angle. There they have taken up logs from Elder's woodpile and settled in a circle about the kinsmen of their lost brother.

The men roar with laughter when we approach, and the Elder's face shines with a gentle affection. I know not should he, with his aged ears, hear the tale in full. Mayhap he but looks to the men to warm his heart as the sun cannot, for they tell of Gelir's exploits among them and their joy of him lights them from within.

The baker laughs, only to have his face twist at the pain. He looks quickly away and his wife leans into his shoulder. But one of my lord's men has come upon him and touches him on the shoulder. He recalls himself and, rubbing at his eyes with rough hands, welcomes my lord's man and offers him a seat beside him.

"What was it he spirited into our lord's pipeweed pouch, do you know?"

"I know not, but it gave him a rash for somewhat of a month or more."

"A rash, who, our lord?"

"Nay, 'twas Gelir who suffered the rash. The scamp kept the leaves in his boot for a fortnight ere he made the attempt."

"Aye, aye!" calls out a man, laughing so that he can bare speak. 'Tis Ranger Mathil, assigned here to the Angle for a short time. Light of frame, he can ride with a swiftness unmatched by others his age and experience and so brings news and supplies to those stationed further away. "To give the leaf its proper sweetness, he said."

"Oh, aye! How could I have forgotten? Boot-bottom leaf, he called it."

This last sends them to hooting, and the baker laughs and wipes at his eyes under the gentle smile of his wife. Elder Maurus, too, smiles, though he speaks not.

"And did you see our lord's face when he went to fill his pipe?" Mathil asks, laughing. "None but Gelir could have caused that bewildered and vexed look."

"Ah, don't I know it well," says the baker and they smile upon the man.

"I thought for sure Gelir had finally taken his sport too far."

"What did the lord Aragorn make of it?"

The men halt and, turning about in their seats, make quick to rise. For it is I who ask the question of them.

"My lady," I hear about the group and they touch their knuckles upon their brow.

I nod to Elder Maurus where he remains seated, forgiven of the exercise for the age of his joints and his status among us.

"My lady," croaks the old man.

"My greetings, Elder," I say, bowing my head. I would go on, but the man has already turned his gaze again to the men about him.

In his place, 'tis the baker who speaks for him. "Our thanks to you for your coming, my lady," he says, and I nod.

"Master Edainion," says Mathil and the others echo him as they return to their seats. They look warmly upon my lord's son and smile with some fondness, I think, when he bows his head in return. The boy clings to my hand and looks solemnly upon his father's men, puzzling, I think, the meaning of their smiles and stories.

"I take it Ranger Halbarad did not hear of this tale?" I ask, and they smile broadly and as one turn to Ranger Mathil with pointed looks.

"Nay, my lady," Mathil says. "Not from me at the least," he goes on in protest, "else Gelir would have spent the rest of his years atop Weathertop under Haldren's tender care."

"Ha! Not should Haldren have a say in it!"

This sets them to chuckling, some exchanging more knowing looks than others.

"What was it the lord Aragorn said?" asks a youth I know little. He must raise his voice over the snickering greeting Mathil's pronouncement.

"Eh? Oh!" Mathil pauses a moment to smile upon me ere seating himself and answering. "He said any man who had the boldness and skill to play the Lord of the Dúnedain for a fool had the mark of a man who might perform deeds of great merit. And so he hoped Gelir might set his mind to duty more oft than he had in the past, but now he must set his mind to finding him somewhat decent to smoke or else he would be set to naught but watching the open wastes for the next year."

I smile, for well can I imagine it. Here, with a pang, it only comes to me that my lord shall not know of Gelir's death until it is long passed.

And then naught more is said. My mirth has faded, as has theirs. And when it seems the silence would lengthen for our presence, I take my lord's son's hand.

"_I am much gladdened to find thee here and hope thou shalt find comfort in it,_" I say and their gaze upon me softens somewhat. With this, they salute from where they sit and nod their farewells.

"Did I ever tell ye of the crickets?" I hear as I lean to take up my basket again.

"Ah, he kept a box of them under our bed when he was young," says the baker. "Drove me mad with them, he did. I once told him I would be as glad to be rid of him as the crickets when I married and moved to a home of my own."

His wife laughs and shakes her head. "Aye, and then he waited until the dancing when naught would see it and let some loose beneath the sheets of our marriage bed."

"I confess it, not all of the shouting that night was of pleasure."

She slaps lightly at her husband's knee and lets him draw her close when he would wrap his arm about her. "Some of it was."

My lord's son pulls upon the tether of my arm, for I promised him sweet cakes. Should we not stay for the stories, then I doubt not he will be eager for them.

The room within is crowded with folk and a long table set with swiftly vanishing food. Upon a bench upon the far side, Elesinda sits there with her head lying upon her mother's shoulder, her eyes red and face disfigured by tears that have been long in the shedding. Her mother reaches a gentle hand to pat and stroke the young woman's cheek. Later, aye, later when she need not cling so tightly to her mother's hand, shall I go to her and offer what comfort I can.

They have laid Gelir upon a bed of pine in the hall, there to rest upon the boughs on which they will bear him to the barrows. The sharp scent of its dark leaves hangs about him. They have rubbed a bit of earth upon his brow. Dark it lies smeared against his pale skin. I cannot look upon his face, no longer pleasant with mirth but flat and still. And I can think of naught but the little boy I once knew, his face alight with mischief, who took as great delight in the pranks he pulled as the scolding he would receive for them.

I start at my lord's son's movement, for he has brought his fingers to his brow, as I had taught him.

"_Ammë_?" Edainion asks in whisper, turning upon me. "Will they bury him like this?"

My lord's son glances swiftly upon the closed and sunken eyes. A child of open meadows, wooded boundaries, and beast raised upon pastures and in pens, he is no stranger to death, but had not seen it in one he knew and held dear.

"Aye, _onya_."

"Why has he got dirt on him," he observes, taking in the smear of earth upon Gelir's brow.

"Of Arda are we made and to it our bodies are bound, _onya_. And so by its soil are we greeted when we are born and to it we go when we die," I say, the words coming forth by rote.

"Lothel!" come the cry hard upon a crash of crockery.

The folk gathered in the small hall stop their quiet murmuring to turn to the door through which the sound comes.

"Och, girl! See what you have done!"

Ah, but a pitiful sight she makes, the young lass, for she bursts through the door, her cheeks wet and a hand to her eye to wipe at tears.

"Can you not look ere you set your feet to walking, eh? You knocked the sweets clear off the table for your clumsiness," comes Pelara's voice, but the girl has fled, brushing past the forest of breeches and skirts about her for the door. I have all but turned to go into the inner rooms when a hand tugs upon my skirts.

"_Ammë?_" asks Edainion, peering up at me. "May I go back and listen to the stories, now?"

"Nay, _onya_. Go find Lothel," I say. "And keep her away for a while, will you not?"

He peers about him uncertainly and keeps his voice low. "But everyone already ate the cakes and I want to hear about Ranger Gelir," he protests to my skirts, plucking at the folds that hang from my belly.

_"Ai, onya,_ no. We spoke of this._" _ I tug the fold of cloth from his grip. He peers about my skirts at the door and bites at his lip. "You need do little but sit with her and give her company." I push at his shoulders._ "Thou art needed._"

Though with feet slowed by his unease, he goes, following the path of his friend's flight and leaving me the thornier problem of the girl's grandmother. _Ai! _And my head already aches.

When I enter the family's inner hall, I am greeted by the scents of roast meats that sets my mouth to watering. A thin cloth of white linen adorns the long table, its surface crowded with trays of sliced bread, wooden bowls of dried fruits, baskets of I know not what, mortar and pestle, and pitchers needing filling. It has been months since I have seen so much of food in one place, I confess it difficult to look away. What must it have cost them to make such an effort?

Pots lie stacked by the hearth. Cloths drape over the benches and damp and dirty linens litter the table. A black pot hangs from its metal frame o'er the hearth, within which butter swiftly comes to foaming and is soon to boil should it be left there overlong. But it troubles Mistress Pelara not, for she is upon her knees beside the table muttering.

"Like as not she has made for the barn, confound the girl." She tosses a sharp piece of crockery onto the pile of it afore her where it clanks thinly. "Good as place as any for her, today."

"Let me help you with that," I say and set my basket down.

"Nay, my lady, you shall not," Pelara says. Her eyes come upon me sharply from where she kneels upon the floor.

I clutch at the table and lean to the floor, seeking to grasp a shard close to my foot, but she grabs it up ere I can come upon it.

"I will not have my lady either cutting her finger on one of these sharp-edged things nor ask you to lower yourself to my floor in your state."

"Oh, Pelara," I hear said in a weary voice and only then rise and turn to find Mistress Nesta seated upon a bench near the door behind me.

"Do not 'oh Pelara' me, Nesta," the mistress snaps from where she picks up squares of gingerbread from the stone floor. "You can complain of me once you have had your own child."

Mistress Nesta's face falls closed and she turns away.

_Ai! Merciful Nienna! _

"Your butter is soon to brown. Do you wish me to swing it away?" I pull at the pin that secures my cloak and unwind its fold from about me. Mayhap there is somewhat else I can do and distract Pelara enough to soothe her ire.

"You may do as you wish, my lady" she says, gracing neither Nesta nor I with her attention. Instead, she jerks a damp cloth from the table, unsettling a wood bowl to rocking upon its shallow hip.

The metal of the hanger is hot, and so with the corner of my cloak I push at it with the tips of my fingers, spinning it away from the hearth.

At a loss, I lower myself to the bench beside Mistress Nesta, where she clutches her hands between her knees and watches Pelara sweep at the crumbs of crockery and food upon the floor.

"Has she been like this the whole morn?" I ask.

"I have not my father's ears," Pelara snaps, her back to us.

I cannot account for it, but this, of all things, sets Mistress Nesta's eyes to welling with tears, her hands coming to cover her face. I sigh and put my arm about her broad shoulders. She is solid and her hands are squarely made. It had seemed there was naught they could not set to rights. I pull her into leaning upon me and she allows it.

Pelara tosses the pile of broken crockery to the table where it jangles loudly ere rising from the floor. She twists about, her smallest fingers scratching at her brow, and searches about her. "A tray. Aye, a tray. That is what I need."

"Will not that bowl do?" I ask, lighting upon a shallow wooden thing near to her hand.

"That?" She looks upon me without comprehension.

"Will it not do? Should you have but a bit of cloth for me to wipe it dry –"

With that, she takes up a cloth from the table and scowls at its dampness. This she tosses back to the table and turns about, only to do the same to the next. She curses, her face growing dark. "What must I do for clean linens in this place?"

"Pelara," I say, rising from the bench, but she is gone, striding quickly to a chest and flinging open the lid so it bangs against the wall.

"Pelara, shall you not go to your father?" comes Nesta's voice from by the door.

Pelara slams the lid closed. "Ah!" she exclaims, returning to the table and rifling through the bowls, cups, and linens there. "Is there not a single dry piece of cloth in this entire hall?" Angered now, she takes up the damp linens by their corners and yanks them from the table and bench, piling them in her arm. "What use my daughter! My hall full of guests and not a single clean piece of linen to be found."

"Do you not remember? She went to the barrows to see to laying the evergreens in the grave," says Nesta.

'Tis then the light of the hearth catches upon her cheeks, and I can see that Pelara is weeping in the midst of her wrath.

"Pelara!" No longer gentle, I come upon her and lay a hand on her arm. I would turn her about to face me, but it is then she pulls away.

"Sweet Valar! I can find naught in all this mess!" Pelara shouts and flings the towels she holds to the floor, putting her back to me. There she stands, and I think she is as stunned by the quiet as am I, for she lets herself down to a bench afore the hearth, her back still to us. She clasps the bench, her knuckles white upon the wood.

I know not what to say or do and am caught in the midst of room. I still my hands, for they have been wringing themselves upon the crest of my belly.

"Oh, my lady," Pelara says at length, her voice muffled behind her hand and strained with weariness. "I had hoped you would bring the savory pies. He liked them so."

_Ai!_

Sighing, Nesta gathers her skirts, and, pressing against her knees, rises heavily from where she sits. The soles of her shoes scuff upon the floor as had she not the strength to lift them.

"Come, Pelara," she says when she stands beside her. She rubs one hand upon the woman's back, and when Pelara's hand comes up, she takes it in her other and sits next to her.

There they sit together, Nesta peering at Pelara's face. Outside the hall, a deep voice calls out a refrain and many voices give him response, muted though the music is by the walls of the Elder's house.

"Will you not join your guests?" Nesta asks, running a hand firmly down the back of Pelara's head and clasping her upon her neck. "You will regret it should you not. Do you not hear? They have begun the singing."

I pick up the mess of linen from the floor, groaning a little at the effort, now their attention is upon each other. Truly they are damp and their scent sour. I drop them to a bench and settle on the linen I brought to wipe the wooden bowl clean for what Pelara was able to salvage of the gingerbread.

Though they keep their voices low, I am not far, and turn away so I need not press my presence upon them.

"I cannot look upon him, Nesta," I hear behind me. "What am I to do? I will never be able to set him in the ground like this. I have not the heart to even look upon him."

"Do not fear it so. I will be with you. You are not expected to bear it on your own. We will be there with you, all your kin. An there is somewhat you cannot do, we will do for you."

"Oh, Nesta," Pelara says, her voice faltering. "I made Lothel cry."

I have taken up the sorrel leaves the mistress asked me to bring and rolled them into a tight bundle. "I sent Edainion after her," I say from where I slice the greens into thin ribbons and set them in the stone mortar. "He is with her."

"See, Pelara. Give her some time and take some comfort yourself, will you not?"

I halt at her silence and turn about to look upon them. Pelara takes in the table full of food, the pile of damp linens upon the bench, and the crumbs of bread and broken crockery that yet lie upon the floor and her shoulders sag. "Go. I will see to it," I say.

"'Tis not the first wake for which I have cooked, Mistress," I go on when seems she would yet protest. "Go," I command, pointing the tip of her own kitchen knife at her and waving her toward the door.

"You need not order me, my lady," she grumbles, though I care naught for her protests so long as she continues to rise from her bench.

Nesta snorts and pulls her to her feet. "She would not need to should you but listen to me!"

"Aye, quit with your fussing," Pelara protests and flaps at Nesta's hands where she yanks at Pelara's apron and pulls it o'er her head. "I am not so daft as to defy both of ye. I will go."

I take the apron Nesta offers me and have pulled it o'er my head and am settling it about my belly and hips when their silence draws my attention. Nesta has taken Pelara's face between her palms. Her thumbs tease at the fine hairs that spring from about Pelara's scarf as she presses her lips to Pelara's brow.

I would smile at the tenderness of it, but pink floods Pelara's face and her eyes cut at me. For all their fond bickering, I had not seen them so afore.

"Are you ready?" asks Nesta.

Pelara shakes her head, but for all that, squeezes the hand that Nesta has drawn down her arm.

"We shall do it together, then."

And with a deep breath, Pelara nods, wiping at her eyes and settling her skirts and the scarf upon her head. Squaring her shoulders, she allows the other women to gentle her forward with her hand about her back.

Loud is the singing of a sudden at the opening of the door and I catch the glimpse of men and women raising both voice and glass in farewell ere the door falls shut of itself.

_Ai!_ I lean my palms upon the table and, after a moment of resting there, a quick laugh surprises me. I had not thought I would feel mirth at such a time.

Ah, what would my lord have done? A longing for the sight of him rises so swiftly I choke on my laughter. My heart is sure 'tis his shadow that darkens the floor beneath the closed door and he is soon to duck his head beneath its low lintel. Oh, _ai, _do I wish he was here. But this is our fate, is it not? Those of us left behind. To watch and wait, and wonder should we clutch more tightly to what is dear or build fortresses about our hearts instead.

My lord is not here, and it is his lady who must then labor to make up the lack.

Aye, well. The hall could be set to rights and the last effort to put the food to their guests could be done. I rub at my brow and hope to wrest my thoughts into some order. The roast hens are resting ere I shall carve them and lay them upon the sliced bread for serving. They are few, but with the boiled eggs I have brought, it will be enough. But first, I take up the Mistress' pestle, dropping handfuls of the chopped sorrel to the mortar and there grinding it. A green scent of lemon and herb arises from the stone bowl. Soon I shall swing the pot of butter back to the hearth and therein cook the crushed greens. Cream shall be heated, too, and therewith the butter make a good, tart and thick sauce to go o'er all. Mayhap I have not the hands of the healer, but at least this I can do.

~oOo~

My lord's son does not sleep but lies still beneath his wool and fur coverlets. This is most unlike him. As most children his age, he runs through the hours as had he but a few to spend and only rests upon the end of the day. Then, as soon as he lays upon the mattress, he falls into a deep slumber from which he will not stir until the morning, when he may begin it all again.

The rushlight flickers from its place on the tall chest, throwing shadows across the closed room. Halbarad's voice sounds low in the hall below stairs, where he and the latest youth to join us secure the house and prepare their pallets. My lord's kin shall leave upon the morrow, for now we have laid Gelir in his grave and said our farewells over him, Halbarad has called for a muster of our lord's men.

The solar is yet warm from the rising heat from the hearth. Soon, the chill of the night will creep in and we will be glad of the thick blankets that cover us. My lord's son lies in the trundle bed while I quickly wet my hair and comb my fingers through the tangles. The floor grows cold and I press the length of my hair in a cloth and dry myself about my shoulders swiftly. A glance at the bed and it comes to me that I have heard little of the boy this day.

Upon our return to the house, he amused himself silently in the garden and in a corner of the solar when not at his lessons. He left little of the outdoors strewn behind him in the hall. His voice did not spill in through its high windows. Dirt did not sift from his garments and when he undressed for the night there were no wriggling bits of the forest or pasture to capture and set free.

I hang the cloth on the hook above the basin, take up my stoppered jar, and throw a wrap about my shoulders. Tonight, Edainion's look is troubled, his brows dark and drawn, and he does not sleep. I sit at the edge of the trundle bed, the boards biting into the flesh behind my knees. There, I smile at my lord's son and part my hair to begin my braiding.

When he does not speak, I say, my hands busy, "Have you been thinking today of Gelir?"

He says naught but nods, watching as I first rub the oil into my hair and then pull my thickened fingers through it, picking lengths to add to the braid as it winds from temple to nape. There is little of the infant left to him, with his long limbs and somber eyes. Give him but another season and his father might not know him. Soon, I have all but one braid plaited and tied, and still he has not spoken.

"What did you do with Lothel?"

He shrugs and then says, "We played in the Elder's barn with Ruful."

"I see. Was she crying when you found her?" I take up the jar and shake it.

He nods, and his eyes follow my hands as I rub my palms tother and then press oil into my curls and tease out their tangles with my fingers. "But she stopped when we were playing."

"It was good of you to go to her," I say, but his thoughts have moved on and he grasps a lock of my hair that sways over him with the movement of my fingers, testing it for the oil I wipe into it.

"_Amminya_? Why do you put oil in your hair?"

I smile. "Because, _onya_, otherwise, it will become as matted as yours after you roll about in Master Baran's hayloft. I once oiled your scalp when you were younger and your skin more tender. Do you wish some now?"

Here, at the sudden thought mayhap I have neglected him, I run fingers deep into his hair about the crown of his head to test them. I had thought his hair more like to his father's than mine, with its loose curls that grew into waves of dark hair as he aged.

He shrugs his head from beneath my touch, wrinkling his nose at the smell of flowers that rises from my hand.

"Mayhap I shall make you some less sweet to use upon the winter, eh?" I swipe at his nose with my oiled finger and he gives me a weak smile in return. Aye, 'tis no surprise after the day we have had, somewhat weighs heavily upon his mind. I no longer smile.

When I stop tending my hair and rub his leg, Edainion plucks at the pilled fibers upon his coverlet, his face again solemn. He will speak when he has a mind, and, like his father, no pressure will open his mouth until he is ready. When he does speak, what he has to say surprises me. I cannot think what could have started this round of thought in the boy.

"Lothel said that the House of the Dúnadan can see things ere they happen."

"Aye, 'tis true," I say. "Your father's mother and her parents afore her were given foresight, though it came seldom. And your father, at times is so gifted as well."

"Did you ever know what will happen?" he asks, glancing at me.

"No, it is not given to all."

"Shall I see it?"

"Mayhap. But not all things that are seen will come to be."

I now have his full attention. "How do you know?" he says, his eyes fixed upon me. He searches my face. Ah, we have come to the heart of the matter at last.

"What is it that you have seen, hmm?" I fold the wool of his coverlet and smooth it into place against his breast.

His look is grave. "When they put Ranger Gelir in his grave, they shoveled the dirt atop him to build up his barrow. He was cold. I touched him."

"Aye, I remember." And I do remember Gelir's face, as well as that of my own father, aunt, and sister. Unmoving as stone, pale against the dark earth below it ere we lay the last fold of cloth over them. I have not forgotten.

"When _atarinya_ dies, will he be like that when we bury him?" His voice is stiff and his eyes shimmer in the thin light.

"Ah, child!" I say and cluck my tongue. My hands have fallen still on him.

His breath hitches and he moves swiftly, his small hands clutching at my leg as he lays his head upon my lap and buries his face into my shift.

"I do not want _Atto_ to die," comes the very small, muffled voice.

"_Ai, onya!_" I say and, sighing, draw my fingers over his curls and back.

_Ai!_ What to say to the boy? I cannot give him false hope, for one day we may yet need do as he fears, place his father's body in the ground and say our last words o'er him. Or it may be we must say our farewells to the darkness of night that covers him we know not where. It is this that pricks my eyes with sudden tears. Ah, I would not have my lord suffer an end such as that, alone and unmourned in some dark corner of the Shadow. But this is not my child's fear and I must recall myself to it.

"Were you dreaming?" I ask as I caress my lord's son and he nods his head against my lap. "Ah, then, it was but a simple dream. It need not come to be."

Soon, his face appears, abandoning my skirts to stare at the hair that falls onto the swell of my belly where I lean o'er him. He lies quiet under my hand. He looks to be considering my words with the weight only a child can muster.

"_Onya_," I say, "We fear most to lose those we love the greatest. Do you not love your father above all things?"

He looks up from where he has taken to twisting his fingers into my hair and nods.

"'Tis no wonder, then, that your darkest dreams are of his passing. This dream you had, it means no more than you love him well."

He frowns up at me, his brow crinkling. He looks about speak, but I shake my head at him.

"_Thou must not lose sight of thy faith in thy father." _I know my lord's son. Should I let him, this child will lead me down endless paths of argument. "We will wait and hope for his return, as we ever have. Come," say I, taking up my jar again and setting the stopper to it ere putting it aside. "It is past time for you to be asleep."

He removes his head from my lap, though reluctantly.

"Hold this so it does not become lost," I say, handing him the ribbon. He makes a game of rolling it about his fingers while I hastily twine the last of my hair.

"I will do it," he says, holding the ribbon out of my reach when I attempt to take it from him.

His face scrunches in concentration, fingers tangling in the ribbon and pulling at my head. But, when he is done and the braid seems secure enough for at least one night, and mayhap many more to come with its endless, uneven knots, he climbs out from under the covers and into my crowded lap as he has not done for many months. There, he clings to my arm and presses his head to my breast. There, we rock for a little while, my arms about him and my cheek lying upon the crown of his head.

"Such a clever boy you are," say I and I feel his smile against me. "What say you, just tonight," I whisper into his hair, "you lay in the big bed with me like you did when you were little? Would that help you sleep?" He nods.

"Come then," I say, pushing him off my lap.

"_Ammë_, I want to say goodnight to my brother first," he says ere he lets me rise.

"Very well."

He presses his face against my belly, his eyes wide and elbow digging into my thigh. But I would endure any pain just to see the look of wonder on his face as he listens for the sound of his brother moving about in their mother's womb. My lord's son is convinced he is to have a playmate of his own, tiring as he is of the games of little girls.

"Good night, _torinya_," he says and presses a quick kiss to where he has just lifted his head.

With that he leaves my lap and clambers over the mattress to flop onto the bigger of the two beds.

"Did you hear aught?" I ask and push myself up from the bed.

"No," says he, pulling on the blankets. "I think he is already asleep."

"Mayhap he is," I admit wryly. For all that may be true now, the babe has a habit of waking whenever I am at rest and I have not yet laid myself down.

"May I sleep where _atarinya_ sleeps?" Edainion asks.

Smiling, I say, "Yes, you may."

Done, I pull the curtains about the bed closed, the better to shut out the cold night drafts. I blow out the rushlight ere sitting upon the mattress and drawing the last of the curtains. The shutters are lifted tightly shut and it is dark within the small house of the curtains. I must crawl over my child to reach my side of the bed, but we are soon settled, he with his head upon my shoulder and small body tucked into my side. Soon, his arm lies heavy upon me, but I do not mind. Here we shall be snug. Here I lie and listen to his breathing and feel the press of his ribs upon mine. His hair is heavy and fragrant beneath my lips when I press them there, and long I linger there to breathe in the scent that is his.

~oOo~


	40. Chapter 39

~ Chapter 39 ~

_Dust rose smothering the air, as from nearby there marched up an army of Easterlings that had waited for the signal in the shadows of Ered Lithui beyond the further Tower. Down from the hills on either side of the Morannon poured Orcs innumerable. The men of the West were trapped, and soon, all about the grey mounds where they stood, forces ten times and more than ten times their match would ring them in a sea of enemies._

ROTK: The Black Gate Opens

~oOo~

_~ TA 3016, 30__th__ of Súlimë: Atimes, it seems my head is in a vice and no amount of rest a remedy for it. 'Tis not as severe as with my first, but with this there is no relief and I can only recall my own sister's laments of pain, unease, and swelling, and a stomach that would not settle. But 'tis not got so bad as her complaints and I have no wish to disturb what little comfort Mistress Nesta and Pelara can take of each other at such a time. Nor do I wish to endure the healer's apprehensive looks when she will tell me naught specific but yet again demand I empty my bladder into a bowl._

~oOo~

"And have a care for how you close –"

The door to the buttery slams shut upon my words, shaking the very walls upon which it is hung.

"Edainion!" I cry, but the boy is long beyond hearing. No doubt his feet took him quickly through the garden and down to the old oak where he was wont to sit when his mother makes him of a mind to sulk.

Aye, let him sit beneath its cold branches and mutter against me. Ah! But that boy shall bring naught upon my head except vexation and a swiftly growing ache! Whatever has gotten into him? He has been a trial all the morn long.

Oh, no indeed, for it began ere e'en the sun broke over the mountains. Unlike his father, he was not a courteous bedmate. For his dreams loosened his limbs in the night and he kicked and pummeled me in the midst of them, so I got precious little sleep. _Ai!_ I am befuddled and bebothered by a torpor that weighs upon my eyes so my hands slow and I must recall myself to my tasks and a pain that stabs atimes upon my back so I must halt and do naught but breathe. A cloud of dread seems to follow me no matter where I put myself.

And he has left his carved men strewn all about the hearth! However am I to complete the noon meal and set it to the table without falling upon them? I cannot see the floor for the mountain that is my belly and his toys make their presence known only through the pain they visit upon my feet should I chance upon them.

'Twas at the middle of the morn I bore a pot of soaking beans that was to be our supper from the pantry when I came upon the boy. There he was, spread afore the hearth with his men, horses, orcs and wargs all about him. At the first, I thought naught of it but the inconvenience for the path I must take about them. It meant little to me, though the boy had been about it for most of an hour while I worked around him, his face oddly somber as he carefully set the men in their place only to scowl and rearrange their lines until he was satisfied. It was late into it I attended to his play.

"Elendil!" he cried and the horse reared beneath his hand. Upon it was fixed a seated figure he had long ago named as his father in his play. I knew it well, for it had been one of the first his kin had fashioned for him and held a special place in the boy's heart. All about the horse he had set figures of my lord's men, in a small circle about him were set horsemen, herald with a small bit of cloth for a banner, archers and infantry.

"Ah!" my lord's son cried and with a great sweep of his arms fell upon a surrounding army of our enemy and pressed them upon the beleaguered circle of men in the middle.

"Edainion!" I cried, and my lord's son's face jerked up from the floor. Wide were the eyes that looked upon me.

"What is it you do?"

At this, he leapt to his feet, leaving the melee of men and beast in a disarray between us. He held his father's figure and picked at the raised hoof of the wooden mount with the nail of his finger, staring upon me dumbly.

"_How couldst thou wish such a thing upon thy father?" _

"But, _Mamil_," he said, slipping into the tongue of his infancy. "I was just –"

"You were just what?" I demanded, amazed there was aught could make sensible what I had just seen.

"_Mamil_, but you said it was only a dream!"

"I care not what it is! This is no matter for play!"

I thought then, by his silence, he had done with his excuses. Indeed, I was not of a mind to hear them, for I was yet to see even the slightest hint of remorse upon my lord's son's face. Instead he looked to me as were he pleading for an understanding I was yet to grasp.

"Do you not know what it is you play? Those men there, and your father with them, you would pit them against a foe so far beyond them each one of them would fall. Have you no understanding? It is death, Edainion, you would visit upon them, and a pitiless one, at that. Are you so cruel to think it a matter of play? Did you learn naught upon the barrows yesterday?"

Ah, but his eyes filled at my words and he clutched at the figure tightly. I would have thought he would then be cast down. But though my lord's son did not speak nor meet my eye, his face was set stubbornly and he bowed his head as had I visited a great injustice upon him.

"_Get thee gone from my sight!_" I said then, and he went. "_Do not return until thou hast reconsidered,_" I added to the back that swiftly slipped from the hall.

_Ai!_ My lord had set me to tutoring his son in his ways, but there are times when I despair of the child.

I can no longer kneel beside the hearth to prepare the meal and so I carry the pot across the hall to my lord's table. There I have set aside an onion, though a black must shows darkly beneath its outer skin, salted pork, and leaves from my father's potted bay tree upon a board to protect the wood of the table. Aye, a meager meal it shall make, but I dare serve naught else. I have just come from the pantry. Beans we have there, but more pease that aught else. I have not prepared pease since my lord left, now I have learned his son's distaste for them is shared by his father. But precious little flour do we have, and that mostly of rye. Shall the winter wheat fail, we shall have naught with which to make our bread and I must spread what remains in our pantry more thinly to cover the lack. And so, once I catch my breath, I take up my knife to slice an onion which I would rather set to the pigs than to my lord's table.

_Ai!_ Well, mayhap beyond the rotten outer layers I shall find sweeter flesh.

"My lady, I may have the chance of getting more wine. Do you wish me to bring some for Mistress Nesta or has she enough?" comes the call and I jerk up from where I bend over the table.

'Tis Halbarad, and at my stifled cry, he strides to my lord's table after kicking closed the door through which he entered, his long legs bringing him to me swiftly.

"_What ails thee?_" He tosses his pack to the top of the table. In his haste, his aim is untrue and the pack tumbles unheeded to the floor. "Have you cut yourself, my lady?" he asks, for I yet hold my knife aloft.

"Ah, no." My breath hitches for the pain in my back. Ah! It is as a blade slipped below my ribs.

And then I can breathe again, and the man's face comes into view.

"'Tis naught," say I, for the look Halbarad turns to me is fearful for me.

"You are certain?"

"Aye, Halbarad. They come. They go, and mean naught. Yes, more wine is needed." I rub the knuckles of my fist against my back and nod to the floor. "Your pack."

He shrugs a little and, though looking upon me uncertainly, bends to lift his gear to the table.

"I left hard crackers out for you."

"Aye," he says and leaves me to my puzzle of our meal.

"And strips of venison," I call after him and set to slicing the onion. It is more pungent than most for the soft flesh of its outer layers and I must wipe at my eyes with my sleeve.

"My lady, should I not leave those for you?" comes the man's voice from behind the walls and, in my mind's eye, I can all but see his hand hovering over them in the pantry.

"Take them, Halbarad, we shall not want for meat and you shall have little time for hunting."

Though softly sounded, his grunt gives his assent. In goes the onion to the pot and I now draw the knife upon the pork, paring away what is green and looks to be unfit.

"Shall you go north to the Road?" I call, only to find Halbarad close behind me.

He lays aside the bundle he brought from the pantry.

"Aye, where else?" asks he and throws open his pack. He on one end of the table and I on the other, each intent upon our tasks, and yet he turns upon me a most curious look as he pulls out tinderbox, map in its leather case, oiled cloth, rope, dried apples and other such gear as a Ranger would carry upon the Wild and lays them upon the table.

"I know not." I shrug. "Mayhap you might find better cover in the forest, now you may cross the river there, than upon the path leading from the Angle. I would think you might wish to avoid drawing attention here, could you help it."

"And have you then taken the duties of a Ranger onto yourself, my lady?" he asks and, to my surprise, his voice is sharp with annoyance.

"No!" I jab at the pork and wince, for it is most noncompliant to my wishes. "Truly, Halbarad, I thought only your path might take you past Elesinda's house and I could beg of your kindness to bear her somewhat there for me."

He gives me no answer but rolls the bundle of crackers in the oiled cloth. I had prepared a bread of the finest of our flour and in it stuffed finely-chopped walnuts, honey and spices. I had little hope it would mend Elesinda's heart, but mayhap she would take some small pleasure in its sweetness, for I had not consoled her upon the barrows, leaving that for her mother.

"And you have not found the time to go there yourself, my lady? Master Herdir has offered his cart for your use."

I look up to find Halbarad's glance upon me. I cannot read what is writ there, but I must wonder at the odd stiffening of his jaw when he turns away and takes up the roll of cloth.

"Mayhap then you think it beneath you to run an errand for me?"

"No, indeed, my lady, I am just come from there." He thrusts the roll into his pack, forcing it to fit. "I had thought you might find it in you to attend upon the girl yourself. Master Herdir will be here after the noon meal and could take you in his cart."

I say naught in return but lift the chopped pork upon the knife and drop the meat into the pot, wiping the knife against its rim. My jaw aches for the words I do not say. Metal rings against metal amongst the quiet rustling of Halbarad gathering up his things and stuffing them into his pack. I drop the bay leaves into the pot and there they float upon the water. A pitiful amount of meat it is for the man's last meal in his kin's home ere he must go. I had regretted it, but now I am not so certain. Mayhap I should not have put so much effort into the making his meal, after all.

"Do I not have my lord's son to care for, Halbarad, is that not enough?"

"Aye, yes, my lady," he says and, done filling his pack, tugs upon its flap so it that it slaps upon the leather. "You have your son."

With that, he picks up his pack and turns away. Down comes the knife's handle upon the board but he does not turn at the sharp sound. Confound the man!

"And so you would decide for me my days and take the care of the nursery upon yourself, too, Halbarad?"

"Mayhap I do not care for the example you set him."

His pack lands by the door with a thud.

I will say naught to that but scour at my hands with a corner of my apron. Ah! Kin to the Dúnadan he may be, but who is the man to sit judgment upon the manner in which I fulfill my lord's command?

His stride comes upon me, low and swift, but should this be the manner of his leave-taking, I shall not look upon him. I have my own work that I have set myself and I should be about it. I take up the handle of the pot, ready to set it over the fire, or would have, had not a large hand grasped it ere I could set my own to it.

"I have it," he says swinging the pot easily from atop the table. "Sit you down, now, my lady, and take what rest you may."

And so I sit myself upon the bench and watch as he sets the pot upon the grate.

There are times when I forget how tall my lord's kin stands. Most oft, the pleasantness of his look belies the shear strength and size of the man. But I would not wish to find myself his foe, especially now when the grimness of his thoughts hardens his gaze.

"I had hoped you would call upon Elder Maurus' house, my lady," Halbarad says and then kicks at the fire, knocking the tinder beneath the grate so the flame might catch upon it. "I shall not be here." He stares bitterly upon the fire as had it offended him.

Only now does it come to me I truly do not wish to go to the Elder's house, nor to console Elesinda. I have not wished to go and so convinced my heart the duties of my house excuse were enough.

"I will go," I say, though the dread of it thickens my voice.

~oOo~

I eat slowly, hoping to fool my belly into thinking it is full. Much of what I had hoped to spread upon the week was spent at Gelir's wake. I think Halbarad does the same, for he takes as much care in spooning the pottage of beans to his mouth. Only my lord's son eats swiftly and with little mind for what he tastes. Mayhap that is just as well, for the beans are bland and pasty to my tongue, lacking as they are in grain for texture and the garlic and savory herbs for taste.

My lord's son returned to the hall only upon my calling him indoors for the noon meal. Mayhap it was he spoke to his father, there beneath the old oak, and would not otherwise be disturbed. 'Twas there the two could most oft be found when my lord was at home. I can only hope he found some solace in my lord's wisdom, for I do not wish to think overlong on the reasons my lord's son might have to put his dark thoughts to play upon our hearth.

"_Ammë_?"

"What is it, _onya_?"

He bites his lip with the uncertainty of the young. He knows as well as I the pot is empty, its contents divided amongst us three. He knows, too, that neither Halbarad nor I have asked for more, though our portions are not what once they were, but he presses forward, impelled by echoing in his belly.

"I am hungry still."

"Ah," I say and drop my eyes to gaze at my lord's son's bowl. He has scraped it clean.

It is not a word that has been said within my lord's walls within my hearing, but one that I shall soon see in the eyes of those gathered here in the coming months ere the spring harvest. It has come at last.

"We shall see, _onya_."

Rising, I take his bowl and my own. The table is silent when I leave it, though I feel eyes that bore into my back. I must not look upon them. Once in the buttery, I close the door behind me and set my lord's son's bowl upon the board. I do not search the pantry, well acquainted as I am with both what it contains and what it lacks. Soft voices murmur beyond the door, but I give them little heed.

I am set to scrape the remains of my meal into my lord's son's bowl with his spoon when the creak of the door causes me to jump. But, I am little surprised to see who has followed me, nor does his silence baffle me.

"Ranger Halbarad," I say lightly. I turn my back upon him and return to my task. "Have you taken the duties of the buttery upon yourself as well as that of my lord's Rangers and his nursery?"

A hand reaches about my shoulder and firmly grasps the spoon and my fingers that hold it. This, in itself startles me. I do not think Halbarad has touched me e'er since our argument beneath the stand of pines. He does so now, and his strength is not to be gainsaid, though he use it gently. He stands beside me, looking upon me gravely.

"I have but one duty, my lady."

He lifts the spoon from my hand. He has brought his own meal. Aghast, I see he has reserved the better part of his pottage and now scrapes it into my lord's son's bowl.

I exclaim as loud as I dare, "_Ai!_ Halbarad! An you must, but he is a child do not give him so much! He will have no need of it!"

But my words have little effect. Instead, he empties his bowl and sets it on the board. His face is fixed in firm lines when he scoops up my lord's son's bowl, drops the spoon into it, and thrusts it into my hands.

"Should it be more than he has want of," he says with a quick glance at my belly that he as swiftly withdraws, "I do not wish to be offered this back."

With that, he comes as close as he dare to commanding me to eat the last portion of his meal. His face is tight with somewhat akin to anger and I stare at it in the dim light. Then it comes to me he has it that he has failed of the trust our lord placed upon him. Should I refuse I would only thrust the blade the deeper into the wound.

He nods stiffly and turns upon his heel to go when I lay a hand upon his arm. The touch is light, I dare no more, but he halts as had he been struck. He will not look at me.

"My thanks to you, Ranger Halbarad," I say softly.

He blinks and clears his throat. "My lady," he says, his voice thick and his gaze turned away.

Only when I withdraw my hand does he nod and stride out the buttery door. The light from the hall blinds me momentarily ere I am left in the dimness that is my refuge.

'Twas only later, after my lord's son had had his fill and we took our farewells of my lord's kin did I return there. For I must gird myself with a courage I do not have.

The pottage tastes of salt though I had put none in it. For it was as I said, and my lord's son needed but a little more and left much of Halbarad's meal for me to finish. I eat it here in the dark of the buttery, where I can be alone and fight the tears that shall bring naught of comfort and are only sure to increase the pains in my head.

Have you had such a day? When all to which you would set your hand goes awry? Out of sorts is the world, it seemed, and yet there is naught else to blame but the confusion of your own heart. Aye, I have spent the day carelessly, wantonly, and in it neglected folk and kin and sent my lord's son to weeping for the blindness of my craven heart.

Oh, Laenor! _How I wish thou wert here!_

Ah! Yavanna, Queen of all Life! It comes again!

Oh, had I not thought to set a stool nearby. It is all I can do to cling to the board and pant for one more breath. One more and then the pain shall be gone. One more! Just one more. For the pains came upon me again as I stood in the buttery, and then did I know them for what they were.

Oh, I shall not visit my friend Pelara and wish upon her the peace I know she craves. Nor shall I do what little I may to console Elesinda and her broken heart.

Laenor,_ wert thou here, I would have much mercy to beg of thee for how harshly I judged thee. _

No, for I shall not leave my lord's house today. For his child comes swiftly into it, and early, too. My lord shall not be here to welcome his child at their birth, nor shall he be here to offer me healing. And only now do I know the name of what I have hidden away in the depths of my heart. I am afraid.

_Ai!_ Laenor! _Where art thou?_

~oOo~


	41. Chapter 40

~ Chapter 40 ~

_You will meet many foes, some open, and some disguised; and you may find friends upon your way when you least look for it._

FOTR: The Ring Goes South

~oOo~

_~ TA 3016, 20__th__ of Narquelië: Master Herdir discovered two days prior that men had taken hammers to all but one of the Angle's ploughs in the night. New wheels and coulters needed for the most. Where they were taken, he could not discover. Two mortar boards split and need replacing. Blades were intact. The wheels and mortar boards we can refashion with wood, but we have little iron in the Angle with which to replace the coulters. Master Herdir, in consultation with the Council, to determine the order by which the winter fields are to be ploughed until those destroyed can be repaired. _

~oOo~

Ah! What now?

I halt of a sudden upon the path and my lord's son bumps into my leg.

"_Ammë_?" he asks, peering up at me.

But I spare him no mind, for a great shouting and an ox bawling in vexation has reached my ears. Down the line of ploughmen and cotters comes the sound of voices raised in anger. Heads turn as men scramble away from their source and a murmuring as the wind rising through the pines runs through them.

Ah! Whatever could it be? Is it not enough the land and sky have turned against us, but we must reawaken old quarrels amongst ourselves?

Sure it is my lord would not tolerate such a thing. I have dropped my lord's son's hand in favor of grabbing up my skirts, and a voice falls swiftly behind me, for I am running.

"Lady Nienelen! _I beg thee, wait! _ Do not-"

'Twas the young Ranger who called after me, come to my lord's house in the days of late spring. Young as he was, he was the more easily spared when Halbarad set my lord's men searching for the cause of Gelir's death. One month he had given himself to discover our Enemy's purpose, but that was now spent and gone, and he was no closer to his answer. Restless and grim, Halbarad's disquiet drove him far from the Angle throughout the high, hot days of summer. Only now, when winter begins to chase the leaves of fall from their perches did he send word he shall soon return.

Upon our rising, I had decided to visit Mistress Pelara at home, for I was much disturbed by my thoughts of the Angle's condition. And so we set out for the heart of the village, Edainion, myself, and the young Ranger Boradan entertaining his lord's heir with tales of his elder brother, who, one of the first of the wandering clans from the northern hills to pursue it, has preceded him in taking up my lord's service. It seems his brother takes much to boasting and then must put his body to paying what his wit had promised.

"Come, _onya_," I had said when we set out, stretching my hand for his.

My lord's son tarried at the path's ditches when he should have been walking beside his mother. A buzzing sounded across my ear and I flapped at it, hoping to be rid of the biting fly hovering there. Ah! But they are a plague and buzz about our heads for want of aught else from which to drink.

Edainion stretched his neck to peer to the height of the pines. The wind kicked across the fields, bringing with it the sharp scent of hay as it sighed through the high needles and sent the cones rattling through their branches. He has grown to all arms and legs, has my lord's son, and lost the round-cheeked look of the infant he once was. True it is he shall have his father's height, so it is told in the length of his limbs. Or so I hope, for with each meal I labor to shield my lord's son from all want.

The young Ranger halted close behind Edainion and tapped him upon the shoulder to gain his attention, for my lord's son stared as one enspelled by the swaying tips of the pines, his dark hair falling from his brow and moving with the wind.

"Your lady mother, young master," the youth said when the boy craned about to see who it was who touched him.

"Aye, Ranger Boradan." My lord's son brightened at the smile turned to him. He fair launched himself as a bolt from a bow to grab at my hand and was soon followed by the youth.

"_Ammë_?" Edainion's bright face turned to me. "After our even's meal, shall Ranger Boradan not go out, but stay with us in the hall? He said he would teach me to play the Hare and the Hound."

The smile fell swiftly from Boradan's face at my look, and well it should. For it is a man's game of dice in which little of skill and much of chance rules the fate of the wagers made upon it.

_"I regret I cannot, young master,_" did the Ranger say, all the while glancing upon me. "_I have my duty to perform for thee and thy mother._"

"Oh." Crestfallen, Edainion hung upon my hand as we walked.

I thought the youth as cast down as my lord's son, for I am sure my look told of my displeasure. For a little while we walked in silence and the boy attempted to still the sounds of his steps as would a Ranger upon the Wild. Carefully he strode, peering at the dirt of the path and placing his feet just so, but his attempts at stealth were sadly betrayed by the crackle of the grass and leaves beneath his feet.

"_What dost thou, out there in the dark?_" my lord's son asked, giving up his game and kicking at a stone upon the path.

I squeezed his hand and shook my head once he looked upon me, for he sent up a cloud of dust with his feet and it clung to his breeches and my skirt when it need not.

_"I watch the house, young master, and the croft upon which it stands._"

"That is all? All night?" Edainion asked, turning about to see the nod of the youth walking behind us. _"Does it not get very tiresome?_"

"_Aye, it does, atimes._"

"You must get very bored. Ah! I have it! _Ammë_?" My lord's son tugged on my arm and turned upon me his most winning smile. Oh, but it seems my lord's son is well-used to his way. "Shall I then go with Ranger Boradan to watch the house?"

"I do not think he needs the distraction, _onya_."

"I shall not distract him! _Shall I, _Boradan?"

I could not tell should the hesitant look upon the youth's face speak more to the limits of his tolerance of the boy or he feared to offend his lord's wife by not anticipating her desire to keep her son at home.

"Should it please you, _Ammë_," came my lord's son's pleading voice. "I will be good and heed him well."

At this Ranger Boradan smiled upon the boy and I wondered at what young brothers he left behind in his mother's home, for he had the look of an elder brother who knows well the ways of a young child when temptation proves greater than the oath given.

"_Should it please thee_, my lady, I shall not mind his company."

"Very well," said I. "But on one condition, Ranger Boradan; you not teach my lord's son aught he need not know."

"Aye, my lady."

With that settled, my lord's son forgot himself and kicked at a pebble, sending it and a cloud of dust bursting from the path.

"_Onya_."

"_I beg thy pardon, Ammë_," he said, but I saw naught of remorse for the glee shining from the boy's face.

Aye, he has been a blessing, this youth, for the Angle demands much of my attention, now I can give it, and Halbarad is long away searching upon the Wild. He has taken to the young Ranger, my lord's son has, as were he an elder brother. By the dark eyes and skin and curls they share, 'twould not be far from truth. Poised though the Ranger is upon becoming a man, they are not so far off in age and interests, were it not for the sharp sword that swings from Boradan's hip and his e'er-watchful look. It is he who, in Halbarad's stead, tutors my lord's son in the ways of my lord's men, taking him into the wood about our house in their hunt for small game. Though, 'tis rare they return with somewhat of meat for their efforts. The good beasts of heath and wood have mostly scattered upon the Wild, but Edainion seems to mind it little. I think Boradan schools him in the way of scavenging for bark, lichen, leaf, and root he might eat should aught else be scarce, for atimes he comes home bearing these things for his mother to add to their meal and seems very pleased with himself for it.

"_Hast thou ever seen an orc,_ Ranger Boradan?"

"_Nay, but my elder brother, _Muindir_, has. He said, once_ – "

"Hist, now!" I said, silencing Boradan ere he can continue. We came swiftly upon our folk making their way down the path toward us.

In a slow cavalcade came the Angle to plough the fields and attempt the sowing of the winter wheat. Their feet stirred the dry soil and the wind sent up a cloak of dust behind them to drift into the trees as they pass. Leading them was Master Bachor, for my lord's reeve has taken those who are willing into the forest about the Angle. There they are to glean what nuts and last of the season's fruits can be found beneath its dark eaves. In Master Herdir's place, Bachor swayed upon the back of his mount, moving with the slow swinging stride of the mare beneath him. Grim and weary were they both, man and beast it seemed, though they could not have long been on their journey.

High and bright and clear are the skies of our autumn, and pitiless is the sun that rides therein. Yoked together, the grumbling oxen twitched their ears and lashed their tails, all in vain hope of disturbing the flies that bite at them.

O'er a year it has been ere my lord left and still the days bring no sign of his return. And aye how changed his land for his lack. The spring wheat, bewitched by the promise of deep rains, sprang from the earth in a light green mist upon the land only to die aborning. For we had precious little rain thereafter. The eye of the sun bears down upon us without respite until naught shall grow beneath its harsh gaze but a scattering of beans and a withered ruff of rye and oats. A short harvest it made, the reaping and threshing done in but a few days. What little we brought in from the fields we guard jealously, hoarding it in our granaries as it were the treasure of the highest of kings. Even the haying is done, where in seasons afore a good fortnight or so would yet need to pass ere the grasses dried.

The youth placed himself between my lord's son and I and the line of men and beasts, though I thought there was little from which he would need shield us. Master Bachor nodded his greeting as he passed, and I bowed my head in response, but do not speak. Upon the man's face lay graven his grief, his comeliness sunk deep in shadow. 'Twas many years since I had seen him thus and, as then, had no words with which to console him. Matilde's husband, long weakened by illness, lies now beneath his barrow. Though his death was long looked for, the time of its coming was no less lamented. Aye, they are the quickest to fall no matter our attempts to protect them from it, our youngest, our eldest, and those whose bodies faltered under the press of pain and poor health.

A weariness weighted the feet of the men, their mattocks lying upon their shoulders and their eyes drifting upon my lord's son. So accustomed is he to bearing the weight of their glance, I think he saw it not. His face bright with the joy he took of being out of doors, he smiled upon them as they passed. Mayhap he was eager to see Mistress Pelara. He has not seen his playmate Lothel in some time, and, now he may trail behind Ranger Boradan and satisfy his young boy's heart, he minds not so much the games of little girls nor his disappointment at his sister's birth.

Aye, his sister. Had I not said afore? No? Mayhap then I shall be allowed the chance to repair the fault.

Aye, my lord has both son and daughter, though he knew it not. And indeed, has my lord's son come to love his sister, and it is clear she adores him. He will atimes lean upon the edge of his sister's crib and croon o'er her just to see her pucker her little mouth and make the attempt to imitate him. And when he laughs at her, she smiles and beats upon her blanket with her fists, her eyes wide and drinking in the sight of him. He has learned to hide beneath the wooden slats of her bed until she stirs unhappily and then pop up to catch her face lighting with sudden joy at his appearance. Her gaze trails after her brother and she weeps most piteously should he go where she cannot see. Indeed, the girl wept when she saw her brother vanish from out the hall after we broke our fast. No doubt she would settle soon, for we left her in Elesinda's care and the girl dotes upon the child as were she her own. True it is, it was at first as were the child hers.

For you may hear that into the birthing of a first child goes the greater labor, but I found it not so. The second demanded more of me. Much pain there was and many days of prostration after. But, ah! I should not speak of it. It could not be helped, and all things come as they must. In the end, Mistress Nesta took a knife to my belly to usher my daughter into the world ere the efforts of birth took both of us out of it together.

I remember the pain little, for they doused me with strong draughts of mandrake root until I wept for my sister and cried out for her, long gone though she was. Another mouthful and my eyes rolled in my head and I cowered and screamed of beasts with eyes as burning coals bearing down upon me with their sharp white teeth from my lord's rafters, ere falling into a dark, dreamless sleep. And though she came into this world under the worried eyes of Mistress Nesta and for days afterwards I roused only to put her to my breast, Elesinda took over the infant's care and my daughter thrived.

Aye, unlovely and ungrateful for the effort it took to bring her into the world, my daughter laid upon my breast and squalled, her fists shaking and her face dark with rage as I pressed the dirt to her brow. There Mistress Pelara sat upon the edge of the bed and held my hand. I wept for the beauty of life at that moment. Pelara wept in relief for my awakening. The Mistress had come, weary though she was, stirring herself from her mourning to attend upon me. In want of my lord, 'twas Mistress Pelara who brought me a bowl of the earth from my garden, so I might welcome my daughter to Arda's soil. Elenir I call her, even should it be only for a little until her father returns home and grants her a name of his choosing.

"Well now, my lady," had said Pelara, sitting upon the edge of my bed and looking on the infant fondly when first I held her. "That is a fine case of a woman of the Northland, enter this world kicking and screaming, and cause her mother mortal peril. She will have a fine spirit."

"Ah, Pelara, only you would jest so," Nesta huffed, impatient for her breath after making her way into the solar. There she tossed a pillow to the pallet they had wrested from the parlor and up the stairs.

There she or another woman of the sickhouses slept beside my bed until Nesta judged me well enough healed. But even after she left did she set a guard upon me, frightening the youth Halbarad left in his place into obeying her with warnings of dire consequences should aught tire me. The poor lad, Boradan, sat himself down afore the solar stairs and refused entrance to even Mistress Pelara, though the spring harvest failed and the Council deferred all decisions until the tale of the harvest could be told in full. To his credit, Boradan stood his ground in the face of the Mistress' inchoate spluttering and the Council's more polite but pointed queries. I have no doubt he shall serve my husband well.

And now the fall harvest has come and gone. All of the Angle knows the tale it told and there is no avoiding its foretelling for the winter. Aye! And well could I see it in the men we brushed past, my lord's son and I. Oh, they nodded and brought their fingers to their brow, paying respect as is proper, but their gaze turned quickly elsewhere. It was with a shock as the splash of chill water upon rising I felt eyes upon me. When I turned it was to find Master Sereg, his sons at his side, marching upon the path so close were I lift my hand it would brush upon him. His gaze considered me, and I knew not what shame gripped me when he brought his fingers to his brow. Then he was gone.

Ah! Could I not have prodded at the Council sooner? Could we not have done somewhat to clear the weirs upon the river of its mud and brush? Shallow and thick runs its water and we catch little fish and much leaves in it. Should we not have sent Master Herdir upon his search of our wooded lands at the height of spring when the now withered berries and mushrooms were once plump with rain? Well! The Council shall hear me now.

"My lady! Wait!"

Ah! The great clout-headed fools! Whatever could they think they are about?

The line of men and beast falters and breaks asunder.

"What right have you to the first ploughing, eh?" a voice shouts.

"Hold there!" I hear ahead amidst a labored grunting of oxen.

Men scramble to take ahold the beasts and make them fast, but somewhat unsettles the teams and they protest their imprisonment. The men have gathered in a great press about the noise and I beat upon them.

"Let me through!" All I can see are broad backs and a glimpse of light and shuffling of feet.

"I have earned my right with these my own hands, not had it settled upon me with some chance of birth!"

"Have you now? None of us wished you here."

Ah! I push at backs barring my way and squirm between them until the air is dense with cloth and dust and the jostling shoulders of men. The look turned to me is greatly startled, for I have jabbed a man in the ribs with the crook of my arm.

"My lady!" comes the cry behind me. "Wait!"

A scuffling of feet in the dust and the oxen bawl in distress.

"Let him go!"

"No!"

"Hold there, you cursed Southron," cries a man just afore me, cupping his hands about his mouth the better to have his voice heard. "Let the man of the Angle have his turn first as is his due!"

With that, I strike at his arm and he turns upon me swiftly as would he make me feel the full brunt of his anger. He falls back, his face aghast at the shock of seeing me there. 'Tis rare I am to hear such words spoken within my hearing these days and, had I the time, he would feel more of my displeasure. But I know not what he did next, for at his turning he opened the way into the center, and 'tis there I spring.

Such a thing I see! Two men with their hands upon the horns and yoke of the oxen as would they tear the team asunder between them. Ah, but their faces are dark with wrath. They push at each other and the men jostle in a crowd upon them. Menace hangs in the air as were it the scent of blood. And like wolves the men of the Angle assemble in a pack and move as the ploughman and wanderer struggle o'er the beasts.

"You welcomed us then," I hear from the men gathered about and know not whose voice speaks, "when you would expand your own holdings by the sweat of our brow! What of now? Shall we always lie upon the dirt beneath your feet?"

"Enough of this!" I say, raising my voice above the sound of the crowd. They stare at me uncertainly, shuffling away.

"You wanderers!" shouts the ploughman and lets go his hold of horns and yoke. His face reddened and disfigured by rage, he wrenches at the wanderer's grip, and with a great blow to his cheek, throws the man aside to stumble back upon his heels. "Always wanting more. Well there is no more to be had! Go back to your hills in the north. You will not have none of mine."

I know little of what happened next, but with a great roar of noise the wanderer lowers his head and surges upon the ploughman and they are next tangled together and kicking up dust amidst the shouting of men and lowing of oxen.

No, no, no! _Ai! _Were my lord here, what would he do?

"Enough!" I shout and voices take up the call for a halt to the fighting.

Oh, I am determined they shall heed me and part, and so quickly I stride across the small space of light and ground given them.

With a loud bellow, the ploughman batters at arms clutching about him and, of a sudden, I am lying in the dust, clutching at my face, wondering what had filled my vision so completely I was blinded and why, then, the back of my head buzzes as had it been struck.

It does not pain me, not at first, but it seems all the bees of the Angle are swarming about in my head in a great, disturbed, and spinning cloud. And the shouting! _Ai__!_

_"Thou dost not touch her!"_ I hear in a high voice. Loud it is, though it wavers as were it delivered from a throat made tight by weeping, and stillness falls.

My eyes clear, but such is my astonishment at the sight afore me I can no more rise than had a blow felled me yet again. For 'tis my lord's son who has spoken. He stands there with his hands tight and fisted by his side. His shadow falls upon me where he has planted himself between both Angle and wandering folk of the Dúnedain and his mother. His father's Ranger stands silent beside him, blade naked and bright with the sun slipping along its length. And all about us in a stiff and silent fence stand the men as were they the wooden pikes of the palisades. Ah, and the horror in the eyes of the men who had, until this moment, known naught but the blows they traded!

"Make way!" I hear far behind me and the men about us set to murmuring, shifting about on their feet. But I mind it little, for my lord's son trembles with both fear and fury.

_Ai! Onya! _

At this, I heave myself from the ground and care not for the ringing in my ear nor the heat that is pain spreading o'er my cheek and skull. With but a touch upon his sleeve, my lord's son starts and turns wide eyes to me, his skin marred for the dust and tears he has shed.

"_Ammë_," he says and then halts, uncertain. I take his hand. All his bravery forgotten, his face crumples and he clutches at me, pressing his face deep into my skirts as he has not done in many years.

"Make room, I tell you!"

'Tis Master Bachor who comes.

"Put away your blade!" say I and Ranger Boradan turns wide and blown eyes upon me. "It has no place here."

He hesitates, the whites of his eyes stark against his skin and I hiss at him, _"We do not draw on our own!_"

He blinks and sets the tip of his sword to the scabbard, where it falters, sending the light of the sun into my eyes until he has it mastered and thrusts the blade home.

"What is this?"

Master Bachor has made his way through the crowd and now stands afore it, with Sereg close at his shoulder, watching. I know not what Bachor sees, but it sets a grim line upon his face. The ploughmen and wanderer, their faces wringing sweat and clothes dark with dust step back a pace, uncertain as to their fate. But there is no escape. And it is my foolishness that has brought it upon them.

My eye waters and for the burning of my cheek I know the skin is broken and swells e'en now, but I shall not flinch beneath his sharp gaze when Master Bachor comes near.

"Who struck you, my lady?" he demands.

"I know not, Elder," for, in truth, I am uncertain as to the exact nature of the events.

"Indeed?" And at this, his look is one of thinly veiled anger. "You there," he says, impatient and thrusting his chin at a ploughman I know for one his chiefs of the pledge. "Take ahold of that man and him as well. Bind them and put them under watch."

Easily are the ploughman and wanderer marked. By the dirt clinging to their breeches, the sweat upon their brows, and the blood upon their knuckles, it could be none other.

I laugh and the sound falls oddly upon the bright and quiet space.

"I think you would do better to place me in Master Herdir's keeping as well, then."

"And how is that, my lady?"

"Ah, well," I say, and drop my eyes. A small wry grimace twists at my lips though my heart beats within my breast so loudly I wonder he cannot hear it. "'Twas my own fault. A woman has no place where a man's strength is needed. I should have known better."

Master Bachor's gaze holds upon me. He licks at his lips ere a tightness comes upon his face.

He steps in close and speaks low into my ear. "Do not insult me with your attempts at dissembling, my lady."

He has turned away ere I may speak. "Take them now," he says, for hands have clapped upon the ploughman and wanderer and my mouth runs dry for the naked fear upon their faces. The penalty for raising a hand to any of the House of Isildur is death.

"Who are your pledgeholders?" At my question they halt. "Where are they?" I raise my voice, looking out above the men for one head or two that might move and cleave a path through the crowd.

"It is a little late for that now, my lady. Do you not think?" snaps Master Bachor and turns swiftly to me. Ranger Boradan, unnerved, steps close and his shadow catches the Elder's eyes. He comes no nearer.

"This is not for you to decide, Master Bachor. You are not of the House."

This brings him up short and I think then he will protest, for he draws a quick breath.

"Nor is it mine," say I, my voice swift and low. "It shall be for the Angle to decide. We are hard upon the hallmoot, are we not? I see no harm in the wait."

"My lady, 'tis of no use," he says, shaking his head grimly. "'Twas done when first you were struck."

"Where have they to run?"

The look he puts to me is long and measuring in its silence. But then, he bows, though his gaze remains stiffly upon me.

"As you wish, my lady."

I step back, then. For with that, Master Bachor takes the bond of pledgeholders for the ploughman and wanderer and sets the men back upon their path.

Should I wish to address this festering of ill will between the folk of the Angle, a House that visits death of those dependent upon it as a cost for its own error will do very little to help me. Ah, had I thought the work of the next few days a burden, I have but added to it. It would not be so, had Bachor not insisted upon the House's right to such a harsh response. For what reason could he be so eager for it? The man I knew as brother would not have missed the implications. Was that his purpose? Or is he truly too weary and troubled to attend to it?

"For your pains," Bachor says, "neither of you shall have use of the oxen, not today. Now get you upon your way, and swiftly, too." He gives me no heed and does not salute or give farewell when he again mounts his horse.

Soon we are again at the edge of the path, Ranger Boradan watching as the men pass, his hand lightly laid upon the hilt of his sword. But I do not look upon them, for my lord's son stares up at me with eyes full of questions I think he does not have even the words to give voice. I must give myself over to soothing him. Such a thing it is to have power over men. An it disturbs my sleep and sends me worrying over my books, how it must frighten a child. It is not until the last of the men have passed and I have cleaned his face and smoothed his hair and clothing that my lord's son is ready.

We start again upon our journey to the Elder's house, but without the merriment that accompanied us upon our beginning. And when we are done with our meal and settle for the night, for all the joy he took in his plans to join Ranger Boradan in his watch, my lord's son does not seek to go further from my side than his small bed, there to listen to his mother settle his sister to her sleep and then ease to his own slumbers.

I lay in the dark, then, listening to the slight sounds of his sleep. Had I a hand in the laying of the foundation of my lord's fortress? Mayhap, but the very stone I have laid down shall one day take a life of its own and grow beyond my grasp. However shall I prepare him for it?

~oOo~


	42. Chapter 41

~ Chapter 41 ~

_'Then I cannot help you much, not even with counsel,' said Elrond. 'I can foresee very little of your road; and how your task is to be achieved I do not know. The Shadow has crept now to the feet of the Mountains, and draws nigh even to the borders of Greyflood; and under the Shadow all is dark to me.' _

FOTR: The Ring Goes South

~oOo~

_~ TA 3016, 2__nd__ of Hísimë: Mistress Nesta brought to the Council's attention an unusual increase in complaints of unwellness among clusters of families in the Angle, proceeding from pains of the belly, retching, watery bowels, to fever. Given the nature of the complaints and the activities of those ill, she pointed out several possible sources and urged the Council to discover had their wells been poisoned either of accident or with deliberation. _

~oOo~

The hall is quiet. So still are we here, Elenir's gentle breathing can be heard over the snapping of the fire and the rasp of Halbarad's knife.

I am not at my loom. The even's hours lengthen, yet its unclad frame stands as stark as a leafless tree, its limbs bare of color. I should be dressing it with a long mantle of warp, but I am not. Neither do I dangle my spindle from a growing length of yarn or write in my journal of the days. Indeed, it seems nigh more than I can manage to sit upon this bench and guard the soft rise and fall of my daughter's breast there in her cradle.

Winter comes upon us and I have hung the rugs o'er the tall windows of my lord's hall, and there they shiver at the touch of the wind whistling through the shutters. We should be merry indoors, here in the hall where we are warm. But a quiet has fallen upon us, neither of us speaking. Halbarad watches the fire upon the hearth from his seat. Ever restrained, it is his gaze and knife which betray his unease. Between flickers of light from the short blade, I know his eyes rest upon me atimes. He had thought the trail of orc would lead to the heart of the puzzle of Gelir's death, there hard upon the northern pass of the Road, but it had not. He, too, does not speak, yet so heartsick am I, I care not.

A hard frost stiffened the soil upon the winter ploughing, the sun growing unnaturally dim and the days cold, and men sought the warmth of their hearth by which to work early this year, all but for two of the Angle who upon the hallmoot their folk deemed unworthy. Yoked together they were and together they pulled the plough upon their furrows in which to sow the winter wheat. 'Twas slow and hard work, for they lacked the aid of the team of oxen over which they had fought.

My lord's son and I came upon them struggling to turn the plough, their breath coming harsh and ragged and their hands burned by the rope and chapped and raw from the cold. True it is, they suffered a kinder fate than our lord's law would have demanded, were it taken at its barest word. To my relief, the Angle had decided that no matter had the assault upon me been a matter of intent or negligence, their brawling was a major violation of the lord's law and so I had been allowed the right to pronounce their sentence. I had given much thought to it and could only hope the folk took the lesson from it I intended.

My lord's son stared at them solemnly as we passed, and later, when I tucked his bed's furs about him, pleaded with me to relieve them of their suffering. And so I sent Elesinda with a salve of a fine oil, beeswax, and comfrey for their hands and asked Master Herdir to find those equally born of the Angle and wandered to it who were willing to pull the plough with them. I dared not countenance any quarrel among our folk with further aid than that, but knew not what else to do. A poor substitute I made for my lord. Greatly I regret the lack of his counsel in this matter, and many others besides.

_Ai__!_ Would I could wake upon the morrow and see my lord ducking his head beneath the lintel of the great door to his hall. The opening was made to accommodate the height of his forebears, and yet still 'twas a long habit of his which the few weeks of his return could not break. The cold of his journey would trail in behind him and cling to his clothes. He would smell of wood smoke and wet earth. And yet, his face would light at the warmth of the hearth and his kin about it, and my heart would fill for it. But he is not here, and I do not know when next I shall sit beside him and know things are as they should be.

Elenir sleeps. She alone seems content.

Pounding echoes in the hall as were we secreted in a deep cave and Elenir gives a sudden jerk, her eyes flying open. I have leapt from my seat and soon, Elesinda appears in the door to the solar, her skirts twisting in her hands and her eyes wide in alarm. Halbarad has not moved. His knife falls still, but his eyes came instantly alert. He is poised, listening and tense as a cat coiled to spring upon its prey.

A thin wail rises from the cradle, but I am staring at Halbarad. What of Boradan who walks this house's grounds and gardens? In the normal course, we would hear his voice announcing the intrusion and pleading entrance, but there is naught but the sound of the wind beyond the door and a hard fist that beats again upon its wood. What became of the youth's vigilance?

Halbarad rises and sets aside his carving, brushing away the shavings clinging to his woolen vest. "My lady, your child."

His soft voice seems to break the spell that kept me bound to my place. I go to the cradle and grab up my crying daughter as Halbarad strides to the door. I seek to soothe her, patting upon her back and bouncing her in my arms, but fear seems to have sapped all comfort from my hands. She only wails the louder, pushing against my breast with stiff arms.

Halbarad has taken to wearing his sword at all waking hours and keeping it close where he sleeps. He draws it now, even as he reaches to touch the beam that bars the door. I back away, putting the hearth between myself and my child and what may wait in the night.

Elesinda whispers to me from where she stands, her young face wretched with fear. "What is it, my lady?"

"Hist! Go to my son!" I command and she whirls about. I can hear her feet slipping up the stairs as she obeys.

_"Who is without?"_ Halbarad calls through the heavy wood, his voice sharp and demanding.

A muffled voice replies,_ "A weary traveler. Wilt thou not open? It is cold. I wouldst warm myself by thy fire shouldst thou allow it._"

I am uncertain, for the passing of the seasons have clouded my memory. Yet Halbarad seems sure and quickly he sheathes his sword and draws the bar from the door, flinging it wide. I bounce my child in my arms to still her alarm.

_"Mae govannen_," Halbarad greets the dark gladly, and from the night emerges a grey-cloaked old man. Halbarad ushers him into the light and the Grey Wanderer removes his tall pointed hat as he enters and bows. Familiar eyes twinkle at me from below the thatches of hair that serve as his brows as he peers about the hall.

It is as had I forgotten the simplest of skills and know no more how to breathe. How is this, that the wizard's wandering brings him here?

I bow, though hindered by my squirming burden and the high voice that is a pain in my ears. "You are welcome to my lord's House."

"I was beginning to have my doubts." He glances from Halbarad to the wailing child I clutch tightly.

"Indeed, you are welcome, Mithrandir." I come forward and Halbarad closes the door upon the dark and the cold air that crosses our threshold from without.

I call to the anxious face that peers down at me from the top of the stairs, the light in the solar playing about her head, "All is well, Elesinda. How is he?"

"He sleeps still, my lady," she says after a glance away.

"Stay with him," I say, and she nods and disappears.

My attempts to soothe Elenir seem destined only to excite her temper, and I think it shall put him off, but when I reach his side, the wizard takes the hand I offer and bows over it in formal greeting. He has not yet smiled upon me, and I find I miss that mirth which he had brought first into this house of all our guests.

"And who have we here?" He sets his keen eyes upon the screwed up face of my daughter. Her little fists squirm in my wrap as she screams, and her legs work against my belly where I clutch her to me.

"Here you see my lord's daughter," I say, turning so he can see her face. "Elenir she is called, though I am afraid she has taken fright."

"Tut-tut," he admonishes in a kindly voice, peering at her o'er my shoulder.

His great wrinkled hand rubs her back and he speaks in a rapid flow of words I cannot follow. At his touch, she quiets, taking deep breaths between cries and looking nigh unto surprised, as were he explaining what she had feared had not come to pass in a language only she can understand. Her hands relax against my breast and soon, her fingers pluck at my wrap. She looks upon the wizard with the wide, open gaze of an infant as her warm weight settles against me.

"Yes, this will be glad tidings amidst so much of dark, indeed," he murmurs. "Forgive me, little one," he says with a soft caress to her brow, "for having woken you from your sleep."

She blinks her dark eyes at him and yawns. I should give him a more generous welcome, my guest, but I am struck dumb by his words. And so, instead, I dry the little face of her tears and offer my knuckle for my daughter to suckle, tickling her lips and toothless gums. She latches onto it and her mouth works busily, and as I walk her eyes drift closed. Halbarad laughs softly from where he has been watching. For a Ranger with no wife or child of his own, he is well learned in the upset an infant can produce.

"A neat trick, that," he says. "I do not suppose you could teach me the way of it, Mithrandir."

"Halbarad." I go to a press upon the wall and open it as best I may with but one hand to use. "Would you be so good as to take our guest's pack and make him comfortable?"

"Aye, my lady," he says and gathers the old man's hat while the wizard shrugs off his cold gear and cloak.

"No trick to it, my dear Halbarad," Gandalf says with a somber wink. "All good creatures, great and small, know who to best trust."

The Ranger snorts his disbelief, but with good humor, and hangs the wizard's things upon the hooks by the door. I pull a blanket out of the press, holding my now drowsing daughter to my breast as I lean over. Gandalf sets his staff nearby and, patting his waist for the small roll of leaf, plucks his pipe from the twining fingers of the top of his staff ere he leans it to the wall.

"Come, sit by the fire, Lord Mithrandir," I say, inviting the wizard to the hearth. "Halbarad, my lord's chair, should it please you."

There, between the two of us, we settle the wizard, wrapped in a blanket and seated comfortably afore the fire. He lets loose a long sigh as Halbarad strides to the door and lifts his cloak from its peg. My lord's kin's face has now fallen stern and I know where he goes.

"Halbarad," say I as he throws its folds about him and tugs his hood o'er his head, roused to striding swiftly to him. "He is young."

"Aye, and in need of a good scare." Halbarad settles his hood about his shoulders and seems ready to go, but I have drawn near.

"Surely no harm was done," I say, lowering my voice so our guest shall not be put to the discomfort of hearing our quarrels.

I would think Halbarad's soft grunt answer enough, but he thrusts his hands into his gloves and gives me a sharp look. "My lady do not indulge my men."

"Men, Halbarad, these men of yours are naught more than boys."

"Aye, but men they must be and shall not be should you treat them as you do. They have mothers of their own, though you may think I have cruelly separated them from their breast, untimely. Do not seek to feed them their favorite dishes, my lady. Do not make soft their beds, and, _I beg thee_, upon the pity of the Valar, do not invite them to shelter when it is cold."

"You do not protest when I do the same for you." My daughter's hand slips from its grasp upon the wool of my wrap and I must look away to settle her more deeply into the crook of my shoulder and neck.

"Aye, but I am a man full grown and my tendencies already fixed. These youths do not need the distraction, their minds are untempered enough. I have none other to send upon the Wild and I would have them return safely from their journey upon it."

At this, he holds my gaze with a stern look. Ah! He is in the right, though I may wish it otherwise.

"Very well, then," say I. "Though the Wild shall use them cruelly enough when it is their time, I shall do as you insist and hasten them to it."

"And well you should, my lady. For had you not thought of Boradan as little more than a boy, mayhap you would not bear that mark upon your face."

Of itself, my hand comes up to brush at the torn and bruised skin upon my cheek and temple. To my displeasure, I can think of naught to say in retort and his pointed look at my silence ere he closes the door behind him does not do much to ease my uncertain temper.

I bar the door, cradling my child tightly against my breast.

"See what you have wrought?" I say, teasing the wizard lightly in hopes it shall cover my discomfort.

He packs his weed into the bowl of his pipe but has been watching our exchange from where he sits comfortably by the hearth.

"I?" says he with a glint of light shining deeply hidden in his glance. "I did naught, which, by all accounts, seems to be the same crime as that committed by your young guard. Shall you have a good scare planned for me, as well?"

I am startled into laughter by his words. "I do not think I shall put myself to the test of attempting to outwit a creature such as you, Master Gandalf."

"Good," he says, leaning from his chair to pull a piece of kindling from the fire with which to light his pipe. "I have not dared to taste smoke this fortnight since Rivendell. I would hate for a good smoke to be spoiled for naught."

With the stem of his long pipe firmly clenched between his teeth, the flame sends shadows swooping across his face as he draws it into his pipe with quick breaths. Soon, smoke drifts in curls from his nose and he tosses the kindling back onto the hearth.

"Lady," he then says and leans back into the chair, "bless you. By your grace, I shall soon have warm hands and feet. I lack but two things."

"And what are those," I say as I go to the hearth. I bend to my daughter's cradle, and grabbing up the blanket from within, ease it about her so that I may not disturb her light slumber.

"Ah," he says, with a soft smile lighting his eye. "I have naught to warm my heart nor my belly. Mayhap somewhat to fortify myself against the weariness of speech after long days of traveling, eh?"

I start in shame. "Your pardon, Master Gandalf! The manner of your arrival seems to have chased all proper thoughts from my head."

"Not to worry, my child," he says, "were you to hand your daughter to my care for but a moment you shall go far to warming my heart and all shall be forgiven."

"And it shall free my hands to find somewhat to warm your belly, as well."

'Indeed," says the wizard, "a happy chance it is that the two things are of accord."

I draw near, but somewhat of reluctance keeps my steps slow. "Do you know the way of it?"

"Humph," he grunts and waves a hand to urge me onward, "I have held smaller babes than this one here. The children of the Halflings could fit three to your daughter's bed. No one complained of my skills when I was pressed to their service." He holds his pipe away with exaggerated care, no doubt to soothe a mother's anxious heart.

"I doubt they would dare," I say, but, natheless, lay my child in the wizard's arms.

Despite my misgivings, but for a moment of dismay at being moved, she seems content there. As I wrap the wool about her, he cradles her against his breast and she works mightily to find her fist, scowling until it seems, by chance, her fingers come upon her mouth. Soon she will waken hungry, but now she sleeps the deep slumber of the very young, her mouth working faintly in milky dreams.

"Well, then, Lady Nienelen," the wizard says, taking his pipe into his mouth again and drawing upon it. "Now that that is settled, mayhap you would see fit to extending some of your tending to the old man sitting at your hearth." Smoke curls about him when he speaks.

"And what would he wish for?" I ask and rise from where I am bent over my child. "Some tea, mayhap? I would not recommend the ale, it is thin and bitter, but we have it should naught else satisfy. And I can toast some bread and prepare cold meats, should you wish."

"Tea, should it please you then, the hotter the better," he says, and I leave him to his pipe and the quiet of the hall and wonder he does not speak of what purpose drove him hither.

The light creaking of the boards where Elesinda walks above our heads continues faint amidst the crackle of the fire and the sigh of smoke from the wizard's lips. I dip the beaker in the barrel of water by the hearth and fill the pot for his tea, setting it above the fire. Still a strange reluctance grips me. I should ask my guest of his journey, see to the comfort of his mind as well as that of his body, but I do not. _Ai!_ Mayhap it is the worry that darkens his glance as he studies my daughter's sleep and the light of the fire that sends shadows upon his face. Of all those who travel upon the wide lands of Middle earth, is it not the Grey Wanderer who knows best my lord and his doings? Why then his silence? Does he delay until he can give both I and my lord's kinsman his news?

In a small drawer I find the dried leaves and herbs I seek. Then, once I close the doors to the tall chest, carefully there so I do not disturb what lies therein, and set my burden upon the table, I have lost all that might occupy me and delay the conversation that awaits me. And so I go to the bench and settle there. Of themselves, my hands clasp one upon the other between my knees even as I grapple with my heart.

"I see your garden blooms, lady," Mithrandir says, gazing upon the small face nestled amongst the wool in his arms.

"Have you somewhat you need tell me of my lord?" Though it is softly asked, the wizard's eyes come upon me sharply and in them I see there reflected a gentle pity.

_"I beg of thee, Mithrandir,"_ and find I have fallen to my knees afore him. "Have mercy upon me! Should you have news that would bring me grief, do not make me wait!"

"Ah! Do not distress yourself, lady!" he says. Tucking his pipe in the hand that clutches my child to his breast, his fingers come upon my cheek. "Had I known these were your thoughts I would have spoken sooner. No, Aragorn was well enough when last we parted company."

So great is my relief I cannot hear what more he might have said for the newborn beating of the blood within my veins. For slowly it comes to me the wizard had not made the journey across the Wild only so he may bring news of the Lord of the Dúnedain's death to his lady wife and kin. I press my brow onto his knee.

There he pats upon my head with a light hand. "Indeed, I had hoped to find him here," he goes on. "Had I known him not soon to return, I would have pressed him to send his own greetings."

"Have you any news then, of when we might expect him?"

The wizard grunts and examines the shadows of my face as I turn it to him. Smoke twists in a narrow ladder from the bowl of his pipe where it rests. "Nigh on four months, I make it now," he says, "and we parted company at the fording of the Gladden River, he making his way south and I returning to the north."

South?

Ere I know what I am about, I launch myself to my feet and have lifted my daughter from Mithrandir's arms, giving the wizard little heed. Her softly rounded limbs lie heavily within mine and I cradle them there. Dear is the bow of her lips, a rosy bud not yet fully bloomed. Ah, but she smells of milk and the lavender of the oil with which I anoint her head and I press my nose against her soft cheek. She stirs but does not awaken when I set her again in her bed by the hearth. There I smooth the wool and furs over her sweetly sleeping form.

"All our hopes rest upon this venture, Nienelen. We cannot look back," Gandalf says and I need not turn to know, for all the pity that yet lingers in his glance, the wizard's face has grown stern, for his voice has sharpened. In it I hear the rising of the chill wind and the patient creak of stone upon stone. What fortress had the wizard in his care? And who shall find themselves beyond its pale walls when the storm blows upon it?

"Aye, Gandalf," I say and rise. There is naught for my lord in the south but a land of an ever-watchful evil that would prize his suffering and death and would gladly pay whatever it cost to purchase it. "But at what price?"

Mayhap he would have answered, but I shall never know, for 'twas then I heard Halbarad's voice at the door and his fist upon its wood.

When I raise the bar, the door opens upon Halbarad's startled look, for I had not challenged his knocking nor demanded satisfaction ere allowing entry. A weary wrath flashes hard upon his features, but it falls away quickly, for I doubt not he has caught sight of my face. I know not what its look tells, but he seeks out Mithrandir's gaze and is reassured, though not relieved of his puzzlement, by the shaking of the wizard's head.

I go to the hearth, for the water gallops in the pot I set there. Boradan comes from behind the tall man's shadow, his fingers tight about the hilt of his sword. I wonder at the censure visited upon him but know, now even more than afore, we shall have need for him to abandon all ways of his youth. It is a hard lesson for us both to learn, I think.

"Our lord's Ranger has come with apologies, my lady," says Halbarad when he closes the door. "He begs you to receive them."

I straighten from where I ladle water into the wizard's cup. Behind me comes the creak of wood when he shifts in his chair and I think him done with his pipe, for the smell of burning leaf has become thin.

"My lord counts upon you to keep us safe, Ranger, as do I," I say, my voice low, "and so do my children."

All warmth seems to drain from the young man's face as his eyes are drawn to the helpless infant that sleeps by the hearth, oblivious to aught of danger in the world outside this hall. I can guess at what images must fly through his head, not the least of which is the sight of his lord and chieftain's face should he fail of the trust given him.

Ranger Boradan draws himself up to his greatest height, his shoulders square as he solemnly bows to me.

"I can only beg your forgiveness, my lady," he says, his voice firm for all his shock.

"You have it," I say, "but let us not repeat this lesson." In this I include his captain and I think the youth knows and is the more shamed for it.

"My lady,_ thou shalt not have the need_," says Boradan and, waiting upon Halbarad to give his permission, leaves us in the hall to return to his guard.

"He is well," I say, for I know Halbarad's mind and shall not wait to settle it.

The door is again closed and barred and Halbarad pulls the gloves from his hands. He need not ask who I mean.

"Aye," he says, his voice muffled in the thick wool of his hood as he pulls it o'er his head. He fumbles with the pin that fastens his cloak about him. "But not yet found what he seeks."

At that, the wizard rises with a weary noise and, by dint of rapping the bowl of his pipe against his palm, knocks the spent ashes onto the hearth. He tucks the pipe into a fold of cloth about his belt so he might take the cup I offer him.

"And what think you, Halbarad," the wizard asks, drawing the long folds of his gray skirts about him and sitting himself down with a grunt, "How fares your labors should the Dúnedain of the North's lord not yet return?"

Halbarad's face tells no tales as he comes near. It is a close thing and mayhap he debates the wisdom of voicing fears that would only serve to weigh upon his kin's heart when it cannot help its absence.

"It proceeds much as he had foreseen." Thus, with a lift of the shoulders Halbarad resumes his seat afore the hearth and warms his hand above its flames there. "But we will do as we ever have, until we can do it no longer."

The look Halbarad turns to me when he takes the cup I offer is brief and he gives me his thanks.

"And you, lady," asks the wizard. "What tidings shall I bring to Aragorn from you?"

At first, I do not speak. Were I not so acquainted with the man, I would have missed the disquiet that darkens the deepest shadows of my lord's kin's glance. And so, I come to sit beside him upon the bench, and hope the hearth's warmth enough.

_Ai!_ I shall not have my lord's friend bear him tales of the Angle's fears. Neither shall I speak of my lord's son who sleeps upstairs, ever-present though he is in our thoughts this eve, Halbarad and I. For a fever has taken the boy. Awash in the pale light of the rushlight I can see them even now, Elesinda and my lord's son who lies pale and wretched upon my lord's bed.

_Ai__!_

Where is the father of my children and when shall they see him again?

"Tell him his fortress stands."

~oOo~


	43. Chapter 42

~ Chapter 42 ~

_But everywhere he looked he saw the signs of war. The Misty Mountains were crawling like anthills: orcs were issuing out of a thousand holes._

FOTR: The Breaking of the Fellowship

~oOo~

_~ TA 3017, 5__th__ of Nénimë: Master Herdir commanded to attend today's Council and to bring with him a tally of what remains of the fall's harvest and an accounting of our winter's planting. _

~oOo~

I no longer smell the smoke, though I doubt not its acrid scent yet clings to my dress and hair. My very skin bears its traces and I know myself not unmarked.

_Ai! Nienna of the Countless Tears, have pity on us, I pray!_

The hall afore me is empty and black as the night but for the glow of the hearth. Cushions and benches lie tumbled from their feet where the Elders of the Council had upset them in their haste. Chests gape where their lids were flung open and my lord's son's toys spread scattered upon the floor as had a great battle been fought there and there men and beast lie wounded and dead. The twisted bundle afore the door I know for my daughter's blanket, dropped there in our flight. I leave them as they lie.

My daughter and son are not here. They sleep curled upon Elesinda, deep beneath their blankets as Ranger Boradan watches o'er them within the safety of the wooden palisade. For a long moment by the faint light of the watch-fires I saw their breath curl as smoke about their lips as they slept. Then I turned my back upon them and Pelara's pleas. I confess I gave her the lie and slipped away, making my way to my lord's house across the cold and empty paths of the Angle. A wind arose from the distant mountains and blew upon my face. Only then, for lack of gloves and hood and for the damp and singed cloth of my skirts and cloak, did I feel the cold. Chill against my skin, I breathed its scent of mists and the secret places of deep hidden valleys and knew it brought with it the rain. Mayhap we were not so alone and the Valar turned their indifferent pity upon us, after all.

Aye, and we have great need of it. Flames leap high in my thoughts, spilling angrily against the dark clouds of night, but I do not hear the screams of men and beast, nor the roaring of the fire caught in its net of wattle and thatch. Instead, my ears are full of the weeping of children, the anxious moans of their parents, and the silence of the elders who refuse to eat what is placed afore them so it might be of more use elsewhere. For my books, spread afore me and full of hastily made marks, refuse to lie to me and soothe my anxious heart. Oh, hunger will not set its teeth upon the Angle until the spring ploughing, but it will come, and its bite will be sharp.

_Ai! _Vain was my lord's trust in me! Had I once thought myself wise? Had I once taken pride in the solemn weight with which my lord listened to my counsel?

With the sweep of my hands, I lift the pages of my journal and heave them over the table and onto the floor. There the leather hits the floor with a sudden slap and the pages tumble and scatter about, rustling in their fall against the woven reeds. As so many windblown leaves are they, and of as equal worth.

"Ha!"

That for my mistrust of central stores!

~oOo~

"How many bushels did you find there?"

My lord's reeve shuffled through the slats of wood in his fist from where he stood afore us. Dwarfed as the marks made upon them were they by his fingers, he was slow in his counting, one lathe for each granary, one thin cut for each count of rye.

"I make twenty counts of rye, Elder Bachor," said he when done.

"And of oat?"

Again went the thick finger to running across the edge of the wood and Master Herdir's lips to silently counting. I stifled a yawn, the numbers in my journals afore me long having blurred to a mess of meaningless scratches. The day afore had dawned pale beneath low-hanging clouds and Master Herdir and I spent it upon the Angle visiting its granaries. I need not look to my lists to know what his accounting shall be.

"Aye, that would make fifteen of bean and seventeen of oat, as well."

With great care, Bachor made his marks upon his waxed book, the tip of his stylus scraping across the slate beneath. Elder Maurus nodded, pursing his lips. His fingers tapped upon the table and, with his eyes softly focused upon the wood beneath them, he seemed to tally the odds against us and find them satisfactorily grim. Elder Landir gazed off into the air above the hearth, his lips twisted in a grimace of either distaste or care, I knew not which. Elder Tanaes, his fingers folded afore him on my lord's table, jerked his head aloft and, once aware of it, stilled his rapid blinking. I doubt not he had fallen into a sudden fit of slumber at the droning of the voices about him. I cannot say I blamed him. Ever he was more fit for following our lord into battle or tending his beasts than the endless lists put afore the Council.

Indeed, I, myself, found more of interest in my lord's son's heavy head leaning upon my arm. He is much like to his father, who sets himself to his ease with as much intent as to any other of his labors. I think the boy would have stretched himself full upon the bench and laid his head upon my lap were I not sitting at Council and reluctant to give him leave.

"_Onya_," I whispered to the dark crown of hair pressed against my arm, the perfume of his scent heavy beneath my lips. "_Shalt thou not lie down upon thy bed_? You would surely find more comfort there."

I thought he would welcome the chance to rest, but he shook his head. He had but recently risen and thrown off the clothes of his sickbed and the sound of his coughing was still a pain to a mother's ears, but it quickly grew to a thin and dry thing, mayhap more from habit than aught else.

I suppose I could not blame him. The winter months had seen him take so easily to a chill that he spent his days above stairs more oft than not. When well, he had donned his weighted vest and attempted to regain the strength he had lost, but as the months wore on, and Halbarad was not here to keep him company, he wearied of it. And so, he spent the day playing about the hearth with his carven men, though he kept close and oft came to rest against me as I worked.

"When is Elenir coming home, _Ammë_?" he asked, his voice low for the ears of the Elders gathered about his father's table. He pressed in tighter to my side, so he might hear my answer.

"In a little."

His sister's cradle yet lay empty, abandoned so the council might proceed without interruption from her cries of unease or hunger. Elesinda had begged to take the girl to her family so they might see for themselves what a dear thing she was and, sending Ranger Boradan with them, I allowed it.

"That is all?" I turned from my lord's son to find Master Bachor frowning at his figures in the quiet that was Master Herdir's completed report.

"Aye, Elder, begging your pardon, but I am quite sure of it," said Master Herdir, though he glanced quickly at his tally. "'Twas the full count of Master Fimon's harvest, unless he has stored somewhat you know of and has not told us."

Though I knew not why, this brought a troubled look to Master Bachor's face.

"He has no less than Aeg, or even Sereg surely," I said, and the man left off rubbing at his brow.

"True it is," Master Bachor said, his voice growing brisk, "and they have more mouths to put it in than does he. I simply had not thought it so bad. Ploughman Tundril has near twice as much in his stores, does he not, and yet Fimon now has the greater measure of land."

My lord's reeve shrugged, his face betraying no mood, though I knew the inequities of the harvest troubled him. "Aye, well, Sereg, Tundril, Aeg, their land falls the lowest along the fall fields, Elder, and what with the river and streams running so low as they have, the water never was of enough to flood more than a third of Fimon's furrows. We do attempt to water the lower fields first, though there is little help for it. Should you wish a more equal risk among them, mayhap you could consider a different apportioning of their land."

With a wry twist to his mouth, Bachor made a note upon his tablet. "Aye, your advice is appreciated, Master Herdir. I can but wish I had thought of it ere you needed to give it."

"And why should these in particular trouble you, Bachor? Sure it is they are not the only ones who have more mouths than grain to feed them, high or low land among them."

With that, Elder Maurus' light eyes rose of a sudden from the table and fixed upon the butcher, for it was Elder Tanaes who spoke, his low voice giving the words a greater weight. My lord's son sighed and sank the deeper into my arm. It seemed, like his mother, he had hoped the council soon to come to a close. I had no wish to air our arguments yet again. Did we not know them well enough already?

"Humph," grunted Elder Maurus and, pursing his lips and nodding gently, winked at Edainion for the boy's endurance of the tedium of our council.

The butcher's hand buffeted the table, startling Landir who sat beside him to lifting his chin from the fist that jostled beneath him.

"And so even now, Bachor, you would not consider it?"

"What would you have me consider, Tanaes?"

"Ah!" the butcher grunted, waving at the sour look upon Master Bachor's face. "Aye, you know very well."

"I think we all know very well both of your proposals. It is not as had you failed to worry this very issue between you like a pack of dogs at the last of the table scraps," came Elder Landir's vexed voice, but it might as well have been the wind blowing upon the winter rugs for all it was heeded.

"Aye, I know well your thoughts, Tanaes," said Master Bachor. "It is simple enough to see through to the meaning you intend."

Such was the education my lord's son was to receive at the Council's meetings. Nudging gently at him, I urged him from the bench. "_Go, onya, put away thy things and when thou art done, make thee ready for thy sleep."_

'Twas a measure, I think, of the boy's weariness that he did not protest despite the earliness of the hour. When he had settled himself among his carven men, there picking them up one by one and dropping them to their bag, I turned again to the Council to find their looks sullen and their voices sharp.

"Aye," said Elder Tanaes, his face reddening. "I'll not deny you have plenty wit to understand, 'tis proper thought and stomach to put it afore the folk you lack."

Master Herdir shifted upon his feet, his gaze flicking swiftly from one to the other. I could not fail but to see the grim and discontented set to his eyes, nor, I think had Elder Landir missed it, for he struggled to calm Elders Tanaes and Bachor, to little effect. It was one thing for the Council to fret behind closed doors, quite another to display our quarrels afore the Angle.

"You have been both Ranger and butcher, have you not?" asked Bachor. His face falling swiftly hard, he jerked his arm from beneath Landir's touch. "Shall you attempt yet another trade, Elder Tanaes? Mayhap you would find that of a thief to your liking."

I raised my voice to stop them, but then left off at the thumping of wood upon wood that rattled the cups and slates, for Elder Maurus set his cane to the edge of the table with a vigor that belied the knotted joints that clutched it.

"Spare an old man your bickering," Elder Maurus commanded when he had drawn our eyes. "I am with the young lad, here. I am tired and want my bed. Ration the harvest, keep the fruits of your own labors! It matters little. I thought we had done with that and will soon go to my bed should I have to listen to much more of this."

"Aye," I said. Though the Elder had settled again, he watched me with his light eyes and I wondered at his interference. "We had done, and truly I have little desire, myself, to bring the issue to air again, but we cannot be so foolish as to willingly blind ourselves to -"

"Aye!" said Bachor, and then threw his stylus there amidst the slates and cups and meager remains of the even's meal. "Think you I cannot see the need for aid? You need not set your agents to attack both my courage and my honor afore the Council, my lady, and then set yourself to questioning my understanding. I am no fool!"

At this, running his hand o'er his hair, he mastered some part of his anger, for he ignored the grunt from Elder Tanaes and instead lowered his voice and made his tone reasonable. "Rather I would rely upon the goodwill of the Angle where you mistrust it. We shall see to our own as we have ever done afore. When have we ever had need for the iron arm of the House to put us to it?"

"Do you not think the Angle is in such desperate straits as we had not seen afore?" asked I. "Shall we put our folk's hearts to the test and discover just what extremities shall break them of their vows of faith and fealty?"

"And why does the House worry so for their folk's faith, eh? Do you have reason to fear it not well earned, my lady?"

"Should I sit and do naught, as you advise, then sure it is I have failed of their trust to provide for their care! All of them, Master Bachor, not just those whose oaths you happen to hold or those who can rely upon the benevolence of friends and kin." Despite my best efforts, my voices rose of itself and in truth I have more to say. How is it this man knew just which words would send a fire to my thoughts?

"And for that you have the tithe! Should you find it insufficient to your needs, feel free to set plans for its increase afore the folk of the Angle at the next hallmoot and beg for their vote."

"Halt!"

Down came the head of Elder Maurus' rod upon my lord's table with a crack, rattling the wooden bowls and crockery upon it and startling all to quiet. Risen from his seat, his capped head towered o'er us seated there, his face stern. But he did not turn his wrath upon the Council, for, upon the distance, could be heard the sound of harsh words. Raised voices cried out, but their words had naught to do with grain and management of the harvest, nor that of vows put under the strain of hunger. They called for the Lady of the Dúnedain.

No time was I given to answer, for I had but barely risen when the great door slammed to the wall and through it burst the figure of Ranger Mathil.

"Lady Nienelen!" he called and we, transfixed by the sweat upon his brow and the laboring of his breast, did not answer. Beyond the open door came distant cries.

"Make haste, my lady! They are come!"

~oOo~

A stubborn people, are the folk of the North. Shall our foes break our fortresses of stone and throw down their walls? Shall our libraries burn and our greatest tools lie beneath the flood? Shall dignitaries in distant towers speak disparagingly of us? Shall we throw down tyrants only to have them take to high places and again attempt to grind us beneath their heels? No matter. We yet cling to the earth, though we do it with soiled and worn hands. Do not think to read the Great Tales of the ending of the Age and find the lack of our names there to mean otherwise.

Halbarad, Ranger of the North, sent word of orc upon the northern reaches of the Angle. The news spread as were it riding the black wings of the crow and our folk moved as swiftly in answer.

Even now they come, leading their children by the hand and carrying those who cannot run. The tedious hours of our rehearsal tell, for I hear no word of protest, though their look be grim. The people do not panic and rush about, but come on in good order, urging each other to quickness. Behind them, the sun sets through the tangled boughs of the forest, pressed as it is to the hills by slow and low-hanging clouds. Men have set the watch-fires burning and their light falls upon the stubble of our wretched harvest, throwing long the shadows of men across the furrows as they warm their hands about the flames.

"How far, said you?"

With this, Master Bachor slips me the fired round of clay, his eyes naught for me, but set upon the darkening paths. Wondering had the man's distraction left him aught with which to attend to his task, I turn the bit of pottery about. The marks upon it come to relief by the light of Ranger Mathil's torch and, thus confirmed of the pledgeholder's name it bears, I drop it into the sack where it clanks among its mates.

"Mistress Pelara will meet you just inside the gate and tell you where you are to settle," I say. "Send your men to their posts once they have unloaded."

A grizzled man of some years, the fuller to whom I speak looks as were he roused from his bed to answer the Angle's call. The last of his kin to enter, he touches his fingers to his brow, at first unable to speak for the want of breath and then gasping between his words. "Aye," he says. "All those, under the pledges I hold, my lady, are here, down to that wee lass, of my daughter's son."

Well done, Elder Lorn," say I, for of all the Angle's folk they were the most greatly dispersed upon its lands and I am well-pleased.

"Eh," he grunts, and nodding, draws in a great breath and follows the crowd through the gate by which we stand and into the fort of earth and wood.

My bag has grown steadily heavier and I shake it to hear the satisfying slide of stone upon stone. I too, wish to hear the answer to Master Bachor's question, for though the bag he holds is now all but empty, I would rather all the Angle's families accounted for and safe behind what little comfort our wooden walls might provide.

"Three hour's ride, by my mark, we made, and they coming on the slower. I would think them an hour, mayhap two away at most, by now," says Ranger Mathil. "Do you not think, Haldren?" He turns aside, throwing the light of his torch upon his comrade leaning against the base of the wall with his cloak drawn tight about him, drinking from his flask.

Ranger Haldren makes a soft noise, wiping at his mouth. The elder of the two by many years, he rests his back upon the wooden palisade and husbands his strength. Tethered close by are their weary mounts, my lord's own mare, and a gelding left to our care upon the death of his rider. My lord's mare snorts, impatient it seems with the delay. She has had little exercise now my lord comes seldom to the Angle, and she shakes her head so her headstall flaps and the metal bits jingle faintly. Haldren's silver hair lies covered by his hood. I see naught of him but his sharp nose white against the shadow of his hood and the hand that reaches to rub the mare beneath her chin and settle her into waiting. His hands are calloused and their nails dark.

"Aye, unless the captain has taught them greater caution in coming so far south." Haldren says and, leaving off his ministrations to the horse with a last scratch, slaps his cork into place.

By the scent upon its opening I doubt not his flask holds somewhat of a stronger brew then I would dare drink at such a time. But who am I to begrudge the man his comforts? Halbarad had sent them on a wild and plunging ride to us, and soon, once the Angle's people are secure, they will return as swiftly to him. I can only hope what they face when they arrive shall not be as dark as my imaginings.

Smoke rises upon the breeze, its smell sharp with the dry fodder of winter. Done with lighting the fires, our folk of the muster take up their places upon the palisade walk and in groups about its wall. Within its circle, I know the rest of our folk and elders craft shelter and warmth for the night, though the sounds are muffled by wood and earth and distance and I cannot hear them. After the first rush of our people had passed within, a handful of men and women yet linger beyond its shelter, watching the dim paths of the Angle and awaiting the last of our folk. Just a little more and all shall be made ready, may the Valar grant us this short time.

"You are certain you sent Ploughman Eradan word?" Master Bachor worries at his lip, his eyes upon the man's son standing in the light of a quickening fire. The youth looks out atimes up on the homes and fields we have abandoned ere returning to his restless pacing.

"Aye, he has sent in all but three of those families pledged to him. At the least, Sereg is with them, did you not say?"

I know not why I say this, for Master Bachor knows it as well as I, having been there for Eradan's son's accounting himself. Should Bachor's heart take no ease then, it shall not take it now, for his own brother, sister, and her sons, living as they do at the foot of the southwestern hills of the Angle, are among those yet to join us.

Bachor's eyes glimmer in the red light of the torch at my words. "Somewhat has gone wrong," he says, shaking his head. "I know it."

"Never fear, Elder," says Ranger Mathil, "Halbarad will have them by the heels soon enough, has he not already done the deed. Your kin will have the time they need."

Time. Aye, there is but a pittance left. The overcast sky above has grown lightless as only a night of winter might be. I would have no hope but for the last gleaming of the sun yet lingering between the slopes of the darkening hills. There, behind the trees, it glows in the dark as embers beneath the timber of a long-burning fire.

We fall silent in our watching, Bachor, Mathil, Haldren, and I. So still are we, I startle when the freshening breeze blowing down from the hills sets the torch fire to snapping in its passing. The scent of the smoke it carries is as a heaviness upon my breast and I am mute for its weight. Why it should be so I cannot tell, but can do naught for it but look upon the distant horizon. Aye, the sun's glow yet lingers in the hills. And then, under my gaze, a light blooms behind the screen of the distant trees. Now not one but two suns set upon the Angle.

With that, Mathil glances upon the men gathering behind us about their watch-fires. The wind rises and sends their flames rushing away from us. Yet still the faint tang of smoke. The scent is foul as it should not be. Catching his look, Haldren pushes swiftly to his feet and stares at the distant lights. He raises his face to the air and breathes deeply of it.

"'Tis not the light of the sun that burns!" he says and, whirling about, yanks at the lines securing the horses. In his haste, he cares not for the knots in the leathers, but pulls them from the ground, stakes and all.

Bachor's face turns ghastly with the look of horror upon it in the flickering of the torchlight. They whip about me, the men, Mathil trailing tongues of fire and Bachor following him. The horses snort and their hooves scuff the dry earth as they jostle for position amidst them, but I stare into the dark. And there it is, small and winking as were it a distant star high in the firmament, yet a third and then a fourth light flares in the night. They grow e'en as I watch. 'Tis the granaries; I know it as sure as could I see a map of the Angle spread afore me and set my lord's stones upon it with my own hand.

I turn and it is to find Haldren mounted upon the gelding and Bachor with his hand upon my lord's mare's headstall, shouting at Mathil who would set himself upon her back. Heads turn and men and women fall still and I, ignoring them, drop my sack and rush upon the men, setting myself in their midst.

"Damn you, man!" cries Bachor. "'Tis my home! My kin!"

"What is it?" I hear shouted in a deep voice across the field.

Elder Tanaes limps from where he sets the folk to their guard about the palisade. A spear newly made his crutch, I have but time to see the metal catch the light upon its sharp head ere my lord's mare lunges between us, Bachor clutching at her reins. It seems Mathil has relented and, tossing his torch to Haldren, who, shouting, urges us to hurry, leaps upon the gelding behind the elder Ranger.

"I am coming with you!"

Bachor shrugs off my hand and reaches for the pommel. He laughs, a bitter and wild sound.

"You have no need," he says. "Stay here!"

"You have no such authority to command me!"

But, giving me no heed, he shrugs off my grip and seeks to put his foot to the stirrup. I shake for my dread, and yet the thought my lord might return to his home to ask me how it was razed and why his people are dead of hunger is more fearful still.

I grab up fistfuls of his coat and, putting all my weight behind it, tear him away from my lord's mare. He stumbles back and loses his grip, unbalanced as he is on one foot.

"Nienelen!" he cries and wrenches from my hold. "Only a fool would take you-" he begins, but ere I know I have done it, the slap sounds as a clap of thunder. He staggers beneath the surprise of it and my hand stings.

I know not who more stunned at what I have done, he or I, but he recovers the more quickly, grappling with me. The eyes that bore into mine burn.

"You shall be such a fool," say I through the clenching of my throat. For a brief moment his grip tightens. Then it has loosed, and he thrusts me from him.

"Be it on your head then, my lady."

"Tanaes!" Ranger Haldren roars the butcher's name, kicking the gelding forward and pointing wildly to the south and west. "Fire! Do you not see it?"

I hear his voice, but the butcher's answer is lost to the sound of creaking leather, for Bachor hauls me aloft after him and I clutch at him to steady myself upon the mare's back.

"Aye!" shouts Haldren as he turns the gelding's nose toward the Angle. "Send Halbarad word and then gather those of your men you can spare and have them ride to us."

Thus we take to flight, the Rangers afore us on the gelding and I with my arms wrapped tight about Bachor's middle.

~oOo~


	44. Chapter 43

~ Chapter 43 ~

_He sprang down the steps and away, leaping down the path. 'Alas! An ill fate is on me this day, and all that I do goes amiss."_

TTT: The Departure of Boromir

~~oOo~

_~ TA 3017, 5__th__ of Nénimë: Spared: 63 bushels of rye and barley. None of wheat or oat. _

~oOo~

Headlong is our flight, though we are hindered in it. We duck beneath low-hanging eaves and charge through alleys, kicking up stones and dust, not daring more speed than safe passage will allow until at last we leave the houses of the Angle's square behind. Only then when the fallow fields open afore us, with the light from Ranger Mathil's torch passing swiftly upon the night, do we dare set the horses to full galloping. Yet still, by the heaving of Bachor's breast beneath my grip and the sounds that whip past my ears, I know him to be cursing for the slowness of our pace.

Once, lights bloomed at the foot of the hill as bright baubles upon a string. But now we cleave through the night air and the flames come nearer, grown so that their flickering tricks the eye to daylight and the heavy plumes of smoke winding above them are dark shadows against the orange clouds.

"Halt!" comes the cry and Bachor draws the mare up short, turning her roughly about. The gelding sidles about a ring of light, his nostrils blown and eyes wild, whinnying, for Mathil has leapt from behind Ranger Haldren and crouches low over a dim and shadowed thing lying upon the path. Haldren speaks sharply and pulls hard upon a rein so the gelding can do naught but turn about in circles until he wearies of the fight.

I need not the keen sense of the beasts, even I can smell it, yet some horrid fascination draws my eyes. So it must be for Bachor, for he knees my lord's mare forward.

"What is it?"

"Come no further!" calls Ranger Mathil and we halt.

Aye, I have no more wish to see, for the light of the torch he holds reveals enough. _Merciful Nienna!_ 'Tis Pledgeholder Eradan and his blood spreads as a dark cloak about him on the path upon which he has fallen. There he lies pale and devoid of all color crumpled upon the cold, dark earth, heedless of the rising wind as it stirs the leaves and sere grass about him.

Mathil peers at the ground about the man, close in his search of both signs in the dirt on which he lies and the marks upon him. His fair face is grim when he rises. He grinds the torch into the dust, and we are plunged into a sudden darkness.

"We risk no light from here," says he.

No sooner have the words left the Ranger's mouth than Bachor turns my lord's mare swiftly about.

"Wait!" I cry and beat on his arm, but to no avail. With a great thrust of her hindquarters, the mare lunges forward. I clutch at Bachor, forgetting myself and cursing him. For in his haste, surely I shall be thrown upon the ground and there trampled by the Rangers in the dark.

I keep my seat despite my fears, and we run on paths known only for the flying of leaves or skittering of pebbles beneath the mare's hooves. Had I thought our progress swift afore? It was naught like, for now we fly as an arrow loosed from a hunter's bow. Bachor crouches low o'er the beast's neck, and I press my face to his back and pray my lord's Rangers may follow as quickly behind.

_Ai!_ The air is foul so I would retch for it.

"Down!" Bachor cries.

At the gathering stench I have dared to peer o'er his shoulder, and ere I know the word for what it is, we duck beneath low-hanging boughs. The tips of their branches tear at my scarf and rake my cheek, but I do not feel the sting. Forsaking the path, we come swiftly upon Bachor's holdings. There, beyond the dark of the wooded croft, a frame of timbers burns as were the very sun itself trapped therein. We come swiftly upon the flames and he slows the mare from her headlong gallop.

'Tis Bachor's granaries. One burns with the white-hot heat of a forge, dripping flames as were the wood itself melting. A third shed stands yet untouched, but black clouds pour from beneath the eaves of a second as were it aflood with smoke.

For once, it is with gratitude I think upon Maurus' black forecasting, for 'twas he who begged the Council to order the ploughing of great firebreaks about our homes and barns. And yet it seems even these measures shall be for naught. For spark and ash drift upon the rising breeze as were they lifted there upon small buzzing wings, and a larch whose old boughs once shaded the beasts in their yard is caught in the blaze. Fire climbs its limbs as were it a living beast. Bales of hay crawl with flame and the oxen within the shed bawl their fear and fury. Hens batter their wings against their coop and their roosters crow so that the air is sharp with the sound. Sheep huddle in the far corner of their yard, bleating and jostling for the furthest point away, no matter it be against a thick rock wall.

And dimly through the smoke, against the shimmering night air twists the dark form of a woman, her curls pulled in tatters from her efforts and cloak thrown aside. There with her eldest son she weeps and beats at the dirt with a sodden blanket. Smoke rises from the earth where sparks have set it aflame. It seems she has been at it some time. Charred rings dot the yard thereabout. 'Tis a battle not easily won, for the grass is dry and quickly set alight and smoke rises all about her.

"Matilde!" Bachor cries, his voice swallowed by the roaring of the fires.

He kicks at the mare, and though reluctant for the blazing heat of the burning granary, putting herself to a burst of speed she goes where commanded, the whites of her eye catching the fire and shining as a bright coin. Great panting breaths come from the beast and, crying out suddenly, she shies from flames as we pass. Thus we plunge onto the croft.

It seems Matilde has heard neither her brother nor the mare, for she urges someone near and cries out.

"Hurry, take the bucket. You must be brave and go to the stream without me. Come!"

With that, through the curtain of smoke a young boy of no more than ten years runs, leaving his youngest brother screaming for him. Their mother had set her cloak deep in water and thrown it about Einiond and her sons. There they huddled behind a bare swathe of earth where once had passed the plough and Einiond clutches the boy to him, refusing to let him follow. His head ducked close and eyes squeezed tightly shut he weeps, and mutters, and rocks.

"Matilde!" comes Bachor's cry. He draws sharply upon the reins and the mare dances to a halt.

At his voice and the sight of the beast hurtling toward her, Matilde stands and stares dumbly upon us. The boy clutches at the bucket, joy rising in his face.

"_Naneth__!_" cries the boy, shaking his mother's arm. "'Tis Uncle. He is come as I said he would!"

Of a sudden Bachor is gone from the mare and I struggle to seize upon the reins so I might still her restlessness and let myself down from her back.

Dimly I hear the gelding's hooves pound into the yard and Haldren and Mathil's voices, for I see naught but Bachor wreathed about in smoke, his swift stride leading him to the youngest boy. There he throws off the sodden wool and picks him up, raising Einiond to his feet. Once I have alighted to the ground, he has all of them in his arms, brother and sister's sons, and Matilde weeps for her relief and clings to him. About them, ash floats upon the air and their sheds and croft burn.

"My lady!"

With cold and stiff fingers, I struggle to unpin my cloak when comes the cry above the roar of the flames and bleating of the sheep. Ranger Mathil blinks and peers into the smoke, striding to me. Haldren is not to be seen, but the gelding they rode has been let loose. He trots to the mare who has come to a stand and blows anxiously as she paces and watches us from some safer distance from the flames.

"Mathil! Let loose the oxen!" I cry and have the cloak from about my shoulders. I need it not for warmth, and in Matilde's inattention, flames take a hold upon the dry grasses about us. "Water! We need water!"

"My lady!" cries Mathil, his own fingers upon the ties of his wrap, but I pay him no more heed. Dust and ash fly up from the ground where I beat it with my cloak. A strong hand comes upon my arm and twists me about. I have but a moment to see the Ranger's face, eyes narrowed and mouth grimly fixed, ere he beats upon the earth with his own cloak where once I stood and stamps at the sparks that fly up from his assault.

"Water must wait, my lady, until we know more what enemy we face," he says, the flames at my skirt now naught but a black scorched place in the grass. When I would protest, he nods to the brilliance that is the granary, where a dark figure that must be Haldren bends to the earth and searches about it. I wonder he can bear the heat.

"Are there others?" Mathil shouts, raising his voice so that Bachor loosens his tight hold upon his sister. "Or are all safe?"

"Sereg!" cries Bachor. His eyes widens at the thought. "Sereg! Where is Sereg? Has he gone for water?" But Matilde shakes her head.

"Bachor-," she begins, but he gives her little chance to speak. 'Twould be somewhat of pity and bitterness in her look, had I reason to think it, for she looks upon the granaries where they are bright with flame.

Tongues of fire feed upon the thatch of the second shed where once it billowed smoke and steam rises from the trees thereabout for the heat of the first.

"_Ai! _Matilde! Tell me he was not caught in the fire!" Bachor then thrusts her young son into her arms and turns away from them to the burning granaries. "Stay here!"

"No, Bachor!" Matilde cries and grasps for her brother. But he is gone.

I draw breath to halt him, but Mathil is the quicker to act. In a motion too swift to follow, he springs as a yearling buck from my side and with both fists he grabs up the front of Bachor's coat and hauls him about.

"No!" he shouts and throws the man to the scorched ground where Bachor stares up at the Ranger lit by the flames. "Go no further!"

"Bachor, listen to me!" With her son clinging to her, Matilde comes upon them and pulls at her brother's hand. "Did he not find you?"

He scuffles briefly in the dirt ere, with her help, he rises.

"Bachor, I sent Eradan to you."

'Tis this brings Bachor up short. He halts and looks upon his sister as were he seeing her anew. "What is this you say?" he demands, his voice hoarse and low.

"And what then of Sereg?"

This last is from Haldren whose face is bright with sweat and who smells strongly of singed hair and wool. "Was it he, then?" he goes on and wipes at his brow, leaving behind a trail of ash upon his skin.

"What is this?" So great is Bachor's shock, he seems scarce to breathe.

"Bachor," I hear and it is Matilde, her voice low so that I must strain to hear it above that of the flames and bleating cattle. "I know not where Sereg is now, but 'twas he who set the fires, none other."

"Aye, and 'twas no orc blade that took Eradan's life."

For a brief moment, Bachor can do naught but stare at Mathil and then mutely take in the billowing smoke and white-hot heat that is his harvest and the hope of his kin and oathmen. I think, mayhap, news of Sereg's death would not have caused him more suffering. I know not what he would next have done, but of a sudden the boy in Matilde's arms shrieks and Einiond cries out as ash and flame swirl upon the wind.

_Ai!_ The oxen scream, for the far wall of their shed crumbles upon itself beneath the weight of the flame, sending up a great cloud of smoke in the wake of its fall.

~oOo~

_Ai! _No!

So slow the coarse bag I carry tumbles from my arms it seems I could catch it midfall, but I fail the attempt. For I know not should it be for fury or fear but I shake so it slips from my grasp and the bag bursts its seams when it strikes the floor of the granary. Ah! Rye berries fall about my feet and scatter upon the stones set in the floor.

Sweat and smoke sting my eyes, but I dare not wipe at my brow, but drop to my knees and though the rough boards tears at my skin, scrape at the grain and scoop handfuls into the torn sack. Mayhap it can hold the rye for but long enough to carry it to safety. I have dampened my scarf and tied it about my nose and mouth, but it helps little for each breath is more bitter than the one afore. So short the time, each grain grows more precious for the moments passing.

"Leave that, my lady!"

I startle at the sight of the Ranger looming o'er my head. 'Tis Mathil. He, too, has wound a bit of cloth about his face and I can see naught of him but his eyes. He comes swiftly to kneel beside me and, despite his words, scrapes at the rye with me.

"Has it caught?" I ask.

His eyes say it has not.

"Any sign, my lady," he warns, but need speak no further. He is clearly indisposed to allow his chieftain's wife to continue hauling sacks and casks of grain should the granary in which they are stored catch afire.

"Aye." Taking up the sack, I abandon the last of the grain to the cracks between the wood, thrusting the burden into his arms. "But we have some time yet. Go!"

Being his lord's man, so he goes, and as swiftly as I might wish. For smoke seeps in through the thatch above his head and were the Ranger to stay much longer he would be sure to note it. The smoke twists in a slow dance in the dead air about the rafters. Should the roof be not yet afire, it shall soon be.

"Hiyah!" To the slap of leather and an ox's bellow, I stumble from the granary to a world that changed even ere I was within.

_Ai! _So little time has passed, moments, no more, and the one granary is dead. Stumps of timber shelter naught but smoke, glowing coals, and empty air. 'Tis the second that blazes as the heart of a furnace now. Aye, they are gone, no more the grain that would feed Master Bachor's house and those of the Angle who claim his care.

No more, too, the lowing of the cattle and baaing of the sheep, and the roosters' call has ceased. Whooping and striking at their flanks with withy branches, I had set the cattle and sheep loose upon the pasture. There the hens rose from their pens in a great flapping of wings and the cattle bounded across the fallow land. The sheep resisted my beating upon them and pressed all the tighter in a knot against the stone wall, for in their pen the gate faced upon the fire, the way out clouded in smoke and fear. I came nigh to despairing of freeing them when one ewe, either more bold than the rest or more weary of the sting of my rod about her knees, broke from the herd and, to my relief, the rest trotted after her. Now they have scattered into the darkness so as not to be seen.

Ranger Mathil has stuffed the sack into the top of a basket, the grains spilling forth when he forced the lid atop it all. For the rye lies scattered upon the blackened ground and he and basket are gone. He carries his loads far beyond the firebreak to a pile of baskets, sacks and rings of grain upon the lawn of Master Bachor's house. I set yet another basket at my feet where it shall await his return, dropping it heavily to the ground for the numbness of my limbs. Swiftly does the Ranger stride upon the croft, and yet still too slowly does the pile of grain grow there far from the reach of the fire. For the distance between fire and cool shadow is necessarily great and there is naught but the one of us to travel it.

Aye, the one, for Master Bachor, himself, drives a pair of his oxen across the uneven earth. It is he whose voice cries out and whose oxen bawl their complaint of his commands. Their great ungainly heads loll about as they bellow and strain against the yoke. A stranger to the task, Bachor is slower about it than he might wish, I think, for he curses and, stumbling, cracks his whip about their withers. Fire, we had expected, but had not thought it to be set in our midst, and so, abandoning the attempt to put out the fire when it alights upon the grasses, we let it burn and Bachor labors to extend the firebreaks so the flames shall be starved of fodder upon the path to his house and hay sheds. We pray the fire then might die for its hunger. But should it not, his brother and Matilde and her sons, Master Bachor has sent to the earthen fort under Ranger Haldren's care.

In their stead comes the shouting of men, and when I turn about to enter the granary again, it is to find a bright line of fire as a snake winding its way far off upon the pasture to the north. Like a deer it has leaped the firebreak and runs upon the dry grass afore the wind. Men run, ungainly hunters laden with blankets and rugs and their own clothing and attempt to outflank its course. Should it run true, it shall sweep over us soon enough and put our labors to naught. And even that shall little matter, for should it run true, the blaze shall race across the pasture and to the heart of the Angle itself.

All about is dark with the pall of smoke and for the cracking of timber and roar of fire. _Ai!_ What is this melancholy? I have been too long idle! I shake myself free of the sight of wheels of fire spinning to the heavens and the ghastly light upon Bachor's lurching form and Ranger Mathil's face, bright as the moon against the trees in the glare of the burning sheds.

Valar forbid!

'Tis not the Ranger's face, nor is it his eyes that peer upon us.

There in the flickering light, he comes slowly out from the shadowed verge, his hands afore him the better to be plainly seen.

"Bachor," he calls, though I hear not the sound.

He does not once look upon the ruins of granaries nor the fire that consumes them still. And though he has eyes for naught else but the master of the house that once provided him comfort, he has not yet been perceived in return. Indeed, the blade of the plough has lodged itself against some impediment and Bachor is much occupied with it.

"Ho!" Bachor calls to the oxen to slow them. Grimacing with vexation, he jerks at the plough's long handles.

Sereg lifts his palms and comes soon upon the man struggling with the plough.

Ah, no! Should he be taken unawares!

Sereg's hands, stained darkly as they are by the fire, seem to rush upon the man and the sight brings a strange stillness upon the air.

The knot is firm and the linen stretched tight, but I tear the cloth from about my face. "Bachor!"

At this, he ceases his efforts for but a moment and follows the line of my pointing. The plough falls upon its side, the oxen stumbling in the sudden shift of their load, and Bachor throws off the reins. I cannot see his face and know not his mood, but as a hare startled by some fleeting shadow, Sereg halts, his look pleading and his breast rising with shortened breath as had he been running.

"You!" says Bachor, his voice harsh. Swiftly does he march across the croft and three steps, four, five, no more, and he shall be upon the ploughman.

"Bachor! Listen to me. Will you not now shake off their yoke?" Sereg calls. He raises an arm as in warding and backs away from the man who rushes upon him.

_Ai!_ And Ranger Mathil far beyond hearing! My feet are in motion, though I recall not my thoughts giving them their command.

Bachor snarls at the man, his features stripped of their fairness by toil and rage. "By all the Valar, Sereg! You would have had them burn!"

"No! I swear it!" Sereg would then turn to flee, but Bachor is the faster and all intent of flight is too late. He clutches upon the man's cloak as he turns and throws him to the ground.

"Get up!" shouts Bachor, standing over him, his fists raised and ready. "Should there be aught in you that remains yet a man, get up!"

I think then, it shall come to naught but a battle of hand against hand. I stumble o'er the furrows newly hewn into the earth. I have learned well the lesson taught by wading into blows that fly between men and mayhap it is best should I then take up the plough. But then some fey light comes upon Sereg's eyes. They glitter, I know not should it be with the fire or a fever of his mind. He springs of a sudden to his feet and leaps upon Bachor.

_Ai! _Where had he the knife? It springs into his hand as had he plucked it from the air.

There they grapple in shadow and tortured light of the flames and I know not which man cries out, but only that Bachor's face twists in pain.

"No!" I scream.

Alas! I would tear my hair from my head by its very roots were it but a weapon. I have naught! The oxen bellow and I clutch at the handles of the plough. There! 'Tis the whip, I know it, coiled about the feet of the oxen as it were a serpent. Trampled in the mire, it is, and slippery. I snatch it up and come nigh to falling to the ground, for the ox has stamped about and holds the leather tight beneath its hoof.

"Hiyah! Move!" I shout and strike at the animal's flank with naught but my open hand. And then it is free.

They are not men, but a kind of beast with faces too terrible to behold. There they spit and gasp for want of air. Blood blooms upon the cloth of Bachor's breeches there upon his hip. He grapples with Sereg's wrist, for the man has him about the throat and, forcing him to lean upon his lame leg, seeks to thrust his blade to the Elder's breast.

No! _Thou shalt not_!

There they jerk and cry out, Bachor's hands slipping upon Sereg's skin made slick by sweat. In my haste, I have caught both of them in the lash and they stumble apart. Where is he? Where is the knife?

The whip whistles above my head and I strike again, hitting only the ground, and I falter for the shock. Ah! Where is he? There! The leather catches Sereg about the arm and I listen not to his cries nor look upon the bright wheals that start up on his flesh, but draw upon the leather again and again. I strike at him, heedless in my fury, so that he writhes and twists upon himself, stumbling back, unable to either repel the lash or slip out from beneath its bite. Dimly do I see Bachor, restless outside the reach of the whistling leather, his arms warding off its sting.

"Nienelen!" he cries and in the moment I hear his voice and know the fear in it, my arm is all but pulled free of its socket.

Hands clutch and twist and bind my limbs, and though I flail and kick, I am pressed tight against a heaving breast. There the man's breath comes harsh, its edge against my neck as keen against the skin as the blade thrust there.

"Sereg! No!" comes Bachor's cry and he strikes at the ground and would take up the whip in my stead. But he is slow and drags his leg behind him.

"Halt!" Sereg cries and presses the blade so its edge bites upon me. "Come no further!"

The beating of my heart is as a drum. I know little of what he speaks, for in my ears I hear naught but the roar of the flames and the rushing of my own blood.

"Come no further, I say!"

"What do you, Sereg? Was not Eradan enough and you would have more blood upon your hands? She is of the House and your Lady. Let her go!"

A sound comes from Sereg, a mix of disgust and pity both. "You are as sheep! What is this House, eh? Is it not as you, yourself have said? What are they but Elven pretenders, with their high speech and fostering of their children in the Hidden Vale? What care they for the lives of Men? Have not you, yourself, labored to remove their hand from about our necks?"

"She is no threat to you," Bachor begins, his eyes glancing upon me briefly, but Sereg laughs bitterly. Behind us, the timbers of the granary crack and, with a roar, tumble in upon themselves. Smoke swirls upon the heavens and drifts about us.

"Think you she will extend her hand to you?" he cries and laughs again. "She would not labor to bring us beneath the House's heel had the blood of the clans of the northern hills run true in her, no matter her dark look. Her forefathers had little use for the Mighty of Númenor in Umbar and their lick spittles. But she knows naught of her own kin and has turned her back upon them. Even her pity is but to the House's advantage. Each gift but brings the sons of Isildur more power. Now there is naught for you to do but lay down as a dog beneath their boot or rise up as your forefathers did in Umbar.

Bachor stares at him, more lost than e'er I had seen him afore, the firelight behind us playing in his eyes.

"Bachor! Must you wait until the very hosts of Mordor are upon us? Umbar, Eriador, or the Southlands, so it is with the great Houses of Númenor, no matter where they settle. They are all alike. They will build steps of our bones in their climb to the seat of the mighty and think naught of it!"

"Sereg—" I plead and then fall still, for at my voice the blade bites more deeply still.

Bachor starts forward, his hand lifted in warning and his eyes fixed upon the knife that rides the rise and fall of my breath. "You harm her, Sereg, and it shall matter little to you whose hand guides the Angle. Naught awaits you but your own death. They will hunt you down wherever you may find to hide. Let her go!"

"Not should you do as a man should and protect your own. Strike the blow now, ere it is too late! They need not know," says Sereg. "Ah! Say it was an orc that chanced upon her or, Eradan who went mad ere you found him. You are her nearest of kin, are you not? Have you not your own blood of the clans in your veins? You could raise him aright. Were she gone, with our lord away, where else would the boy go?"

In this moment, I know myself lost. I can only pray the wretchedness upon Bachor's face speaks of his unwillingness to make my children his pawns. His look is sickened, as had he thought he must steel himself against what is next to come and knows he had a hand in its making.

"Sereg," he says and then halts.

Sereg's grip upon me tightens and I dare not breathe for the sting of his knife and the tickle of blood raised by it.

"Ah!" he exclaims. "Bachor! _Art thou naught but a thrall and Southron or art thou as thou has claimed_ -"

But then the ground rises up hard and swift beneath me. Too soon to feel the pain of it or know the flight of wood and feather that had skimmed so close to my ear its passing echoes there still, I know only I have been torn loose of Sereg's grip and thrown aside. A shadow has fallen upon Sereg and there they roll about the ground, cloaks tangling and fingers deep in the other's flesh. 'Tis Mathil, all the more deadly for his silence, and he clutches at Sereg's hand bearing the blade.

Then, too, rings out a great cry. He emerges from the twisting cloud of smoke, a towering dark form with sword upraised and the color of fire. He has thrown his cloak afore his face as a guard against the sting of the smoke, but I know him. How he has come so swiftly here I cannot tell. 'Tis Halbarad and he leaps free of the clutch of the fire. Behind him, too, upon my lord's mare rides Ranger Haldren, standing tall in the stirrups and putting another bolt to the string of his bow. I have but the time to hear his shout and the Ranger pulls the nock to his cheek and sights long down the shaft of wood.

But he is too late, for a sudden flash of the blade and with a grunt of pain Mathil clutches at his arm, and the arrow clatters upon the stones and dust where once had been the man. Sereg has risen and now flees. And though blood drips from his sleeve Mathil is quickly after him. Both are lost to the shadows beneath the forest's eaves even as my lord's mare pounds after them.

"My lady?"

'Tis Bachor in the midst of men and beast milling about. He stands above me, offering his hand. With his help, I rise from the dust.

"Are you unharmed?" he asks but I cannot answer and must let him assess my state for himself.

He must be satisfied with what he sees, for he does not press me, though his arm lingers about me still as I tremble. There we lean upon each other. Men and horses pour upon the croft. Halbarad pulls his mount about and looks upon me, his eyes wide as he assesses my state.

"The fire runs wild to the north!" I cry and he nods briskly.

Wheeling his horse about, he shouts to his men, though I know not his words. Some of the host then scatter upon the field, following the line of the fire, others fly quickly about the verge of wooded land in which Sereg runs, others still leap from their horses and set to beating out the fires and taking up the plough.

"Master!" A Ranger I do not know comes upon us. "You are hurt," he says and only now does Bachor grimace and look upon his hip. Long and deep the gash is, and bleeding still. 'Tis only then he seems to feel it, for he swallows and wavers upon his feet.

"My pardon, my lady." The Ranger, tall and with a mind firmly set to it, takes Bachor's arm from about me and settles him to the ground.

"Hold still, now," he says, and I leave them then, though I thought mayhap I heard Bachor calling to me ere he hisses in pain.

Strange how far had seemed the path from the granary to where Sereg had appeared upon the croft when indeed it takes me so little time to travel it now. The men's cries seem a distant thing and yet the crackling of flames in the trees and upon the thatch of the last granary sound no nearer. Ah, but I have not the time to ponder it further. For I have been too long away from my task of bearing the grain from out the shed. Smoke drifts from the granary door, lit as it is from within, and all about the heat presses upon me and steals my breath.

"My lady! What are you doing?"

I shake my head, for dimly across the croft comes the sound as I walk. The ground tilts beneath me and I am uncertain where to put my feet.

"Lady Nienelen!"

A hand takes a hold of my wrist. I feel naught but a knife upon my neck and hear naught but a voice in my ear. _ Ai! _No, no! I flail and kick out and he grunts when the sole of my boot strikes him upon the knee.

"Let me go!" I scream.

Ere I know it, the wind is knocked from me and the ground falls away. For I have been taken about the arm and legs in a strong grip and thrown aloft his shoulder. My throat burns with my cursing and my hands ache with where I beat at his back with my fists. My legs are pinned against his broad breast with naught but bands of iron. _Ai! _The ground spins about his moving feet.

"My lady, I am happy you are unharmed, but be still –" he says, but then the air explodes in light and sound. Bright as the coming of the Valar and as loud as Manwë's thunder, the sun bursts upon the croft.

Stunned I lie still and wonder at the great weight upon me that pins me to the ground so I scarce can breathe. 'Tis Halbarad who lies as he was thrown upon me, as stunned as I, and I gasp at the sight of his face. How is it he? How had I not known him?

Halbarad shakes his head sharply, and with a grunt, he forces himself to roll upon his side. There, propped upon our arms, we lie and look upon the wreck of timber that was once the granary. Its beams thrust as blackened bones from the earth, dark against the restless bright beast that has come to settle in their embrace. The flames are strangely quiet, nigh a thing of beauty in a world of smoke and silence. Slowly, but slowly does the sound of men and flame grow about me.

"My lady," I hear faintly against the ringing in my ears and turn to find Halbarad looking upon me with a face that is both weary and grim. Begrimed by soot and sweat, his skin shines with the heat of the flames. "You shall leave this place, now!"

Only then do I look up to find Ranger Haldren's silver head towering o'er me. With that, Halbarad thrusts himself from the ground and strides away, and I can do naught but take the Ranger's hand offered me.

Haldren takes up the reins of my lord's mare, finding her biddable and willing to come at his call where the gelding has long ago fled. She, too, I think is weary, and no longer protests the slowness of the Ranger's pace. Dark shadows of men advance upon the towers of flame, beating upon the earth and rushing about with pails of water. The heat has beaten them back and fire sparks along a ridge of trees.

"My lady."

My lord's Ranger stands ready, waiting for me, one hand upon the mare's halter and the other raised to clasp my hand. But I do not take it.

"Your flask, Haldren."

A moment and his look upon me is intent. But then, some understanding grows in the softening of his glance, and he digs deep in his coat and draws it forth. He surrenders it to me and it is as I thought. The liquor it holds is potent and burns all it touches.

"I am ready."

~oOo~

'Tis not the sudden sound of the latch of the great door that awakens me, nor the footsteps that approach the hearth, but the sound of rain rustling in the thatch and striking the shutters to be heard after his steps stilled. My head jerks of itself from the pillow of my limbs.

He is marred by soot and smells of smoke and wet wool. His head bowed to his hands, he scrubs slowly at his face, the fingers of one hand wrapped in a soiled scrap of his cloak. My lord's kin says naught when I awake nor when I arise and, taking up a cup from the morning's Council meeting, ladle water into it from the barrel by the hearth. I leave him drinking deeply. When I return from the parlor, I bear a small stone jar and fresh linens.

"Let me see to that," I say as I sit beside him, nodding to his hand.

He surrenders to my touch and I begin by unwinding the filthy rag and tossing it into the hearth. There it lets off a foul smell when the fire catches upon it. The skin of his fingers is an angry red and blisters blackly at the edges of his wounds. He hisses when I lave water upon them, gentle though I try to be, and then falls silent. I have dabbed the salve upon his skin and am slowly winding the thin strips of cloth about his fingers when he speaks.

"What tales do your lists tell, my lady?" He nods at the scattered leaves of parchment where they litter the floor.

"One I believe you know without their reading."

He does not answer. Indeed, he need not.

"You believe it their intent from the beginning?"

He nods. "Not even a handful of orc were they. 'Twas a feint, a test of our defenses. A feint, no more, as have they all been. 'Twas well-played and cost our Enemy precious little."

Aye, he has turned us against each other, and it shall weaken us greatly until he has exacted many times over the payment he expended in the effort. He but bides his time. Soon he will know our lack of offensive movements upon them for what it is. Then they will come in force.

Halbarad watches as I unwind a strip of linen and fold it upon itself to make of it a pad for his palm.

"We have Sereg," he says after some time.

I halt and search his face but find naught there but shadows from the hearth and a long night of wearisome toil. "Dead?"

"Alive," he says grimly, "and now under Elder Tanaes' care."

"And his kin?"

"Gone, in haste and left much behind."

The look he gives me next is one of some concern and I daresay I may yet deserve it upon the morrow. While the Valar have taken pity upon us and put his family out of our reach, mayhap it would have been a kinder fate for all of us had Master Sereg not survived the night. I doubt he shall reveal whatever secret shadows his heart, though there be those who shall surely wish to make the attempt to force it from him, natheless. For Sereg, man of the Dúnedain of the North, is all but dead and he can do naught for it. What is left then but for the House to order the manner of it and see it done where the Angle might know of it?

"Shall you go to the children?" Halbarad then asks, but I shake my head and pick up my binding where I left off.

"I have been there. They are safe. My awakening them would only serve to frighten them."

He watches me wind the strips of linen about his hand, considering this for some time, I think.

"I have the men," he says at length and I know it is come. "Mithrandir may have been unable to wait for me to recall them. But they are here, now. And Mathil has offered, yet again. He, Haldren, a few of the others, they could take you and the children ere I reassign them. Edainion is well-recovered. The journey would not tax him unnecessarily. Take Elesinda with you, should she be willing. You could leave on the morrow."

"No," I say, and he releases a loud, vexed noise and rubs at his face with his free hand.

"Can you tell me from wither came this attack? Can you even assure me of our welcome should we reach the Hidden Vale?" I ask and turn aside to take up the last piece of linen when he sighs.

"You know I cannot, on either account."

"Then no," I say, and lay the linen about his palms and wind it toward his wrist to secure it. I go on when he shakes his head. "I will not risk sending my children on a journey of nigh unto a month upon the Wild with little assurance of succor at the end of it, not when our Enemy has just taken pains to show us how easily he may come upon us where we have no defense and spend so little effort doing it."

"Even so, you should not risk yourself so, my lady. The men under Master Bachor's pledge are the loudest in their complaints. As near Haldren can tell, they are the source of rumors against the House and the petty mischiefs we have suffered. I understand your desire to aid all those under our care, my lady, but there is little to be gained by putting yourself alone in their midst."

"'Twas no great matter." I tuck in the ends of the cloth.

"Aragorn would not say so."

"It hardly matters now that-"

He cuts me off with some heat, "I care not one whit what Mistress Nesta had to say and neither would he!"

I think him, too, stunned by the force of his own words, for he falls silent for a moment and shifts upon the bench as it were harder than its usual wont. He does not look upon me and I cannot speak. When he again fills the silence between us, his voice is low and strained.

"Forgive me. May I remind you, my lady, it is not to you or I to decide when the Lord of the Dúnedain has no more need of our service. He holds our oaths to him. You may not seek to end them of your own will."

Mayhap only now has he caught sight of my face, for he looks away and, taking up his cup and rubbing his thumb against its rim, mutters, "Tis not to us to decide," and says no more.

When I can again speak and have quit with my tears, I rise and take up the jar of salve. With more care than it requires, I replace its lid. "Then I shall have this argument with him when he returns."

Halbarad sighs at this and works his hand, grimacing at the pain, and then rises from his seat. I step over my abandoned lists and make my way to the stairs leading to the solar.

"Well, then, should you not retire to the hill, then best I stay and see you undisturbed." He downs the last of the water and, with a thud, sets his cup upon the bench.

Mayhap it is just as well I have no wish to seek shelter behind the palisades, for my lord's kin seems too weary to move much further beyond the hearth than the settle where he sleeps. There he lets himself down with a soft groan, foregoing blanket and pillow for the rain-sodden and burned wool of his cloak and grimed leather of his gear. His face is shadowed for the arm he has flung across his eyes and I cannot read what lies hidden there.

"Bid you good rest, my lady," he calls across the dark hall.

"And to you, Halbarad."

~oOo~


	45. Chapter 44

~ Chapter 44 ~

"_But Aragorn smiled. 'It will serve,' he said. 'The worst is now over. Stay and be comforted!' Then taking two leaves, he laid them on his hands and breathed on them, and then he crushed them, and straightway a living freshness filled the room, as if the air itself awoke and tingled, sparkling with joy. And then he cast the leaves into the bowls of steaming water that were brought to him, and at once all hearts were lightened. For the fragrance that came to each was like a memory of dewy mornings of unshadowed sun in some land of which the fair world in spring is itself but a fleeting memory."_

ROTK: The House of the Healing

~oOo~

_~ TA 3017, 20__th__ of Nénimë: Mistress Pelara begs the Angle's aid. Her stores of herbs and roots grows low. She is in most need of those plants that grow well in bright sun, yarrow, comfrey, valerian, mandrake root, balm, horehound, mullein, and cropleek._

~oOo~

"I do not understand why you have not found some lad or lass for the purpose."

"'Tis but one day of the week," I protest and pat the pad of linen upon my arm. It still stings.

Having bound up the bundle of dried comfrey from my garden in twine, Mistress Pelara reaches above her head to hang it upon the wooden peg protruding from the low beam, her voice straining with her efforts, "It is not as we lack in small but very willing hands to do the work."

"And they would not know what to do should they find somewhat needed attending," say I and dab at blood that trickles down from my wrist to the crook of my arm. For, aye, in tending to the sheep of my lord's dower where they were pastured, I had slipped upon the wet lichen-covered slab of stone upon which I had set my foot and torn a great bloody line of skin from my arm in my attempt to catch my fall. "It would take more to train them than it takes to do the work myself."

"Not there, Pelara," comes Mistress Nesta's voice from the corner of her worktable.

The healer looks up from where she and my lord's son bend their heads o'er his journal.

There they have cleared a space of mortar and pestle and ewers and linen bags and a great pot with a long fall of a spout like the neck of a goose bent to feed, whose purpose I know not. Bundles of dried flowers and leaves hang from the low rafters, and they fill the mistress' workshop with their heady scent.

When the weather warms and the sun beckons the herbs to rise from their beds, her shutters open upon great gardens that stretch from beneath her window to the path afore it and all about behind. Most oft we would hear the thud of spade and hoe upon her toft, but in the deep frost of winter, bright is the day without, but the garden is silent. Within, here we are set snuggly between hearth and table and shelves of bowls and baskets of linens and tools of the mistress' craft. Her helpers attend upon their duties elsewhere or, as we had done, gather what can be spared from the butteries and pantries about the Angle to make up for what the mistress was unable to wheedle from a season of wet days and dim sun.

Now he is fully lettered, Edainion has requested tutoring in the healer's craft so he might surprise his father with his knowledge upon his return home. He has taken to pressing flowers and leaves between the pages of his journal and learning their names and uses. The sun streams upon he and Mistress Nesta through the vent in the roof, where in its light they have taken to using my mishap to my lord's son's betterment.

"Och! What have I done, now?" Pelara protests. "Herbs hither and spices thither, aye?" she asks, gesturing loosely with the next bunch of dried flowers.

"'Tis not a kitchen, Pelara," says Nesta. "That for the relief of pain here, the relief of illness there, and the treating of wounds there." She gestures about the room in a dizzying swiftness that leaves I, too, at a loss.

"And how am I to tell which is which?"

"You would know, had you paid aught of attention to what I do."

"'Tis not dried leaves dangling from your rafters I come to see when I visit," mumbles Pelara and yanks the bundle of comfrey from its hook in a rustle of dried leaves.

"Just set them down in your basket and we will have the young master sort them out. Seems a good test of his efforts. What say you, Master Edainion?"

"I do not think I know all of them yet, Mistress." He looks up of a sudden in alarm.

"No matter, I will help you through it," she says, tapping a finger upon his open journal. "Now, Master Edainion, which shall we use? The yarrow or the comfrey?"

Biting upon his lip, he peers at the notes he had made, considering his response. 'Tis the first chance he will have to attempt the craft of his father and, by the deep furrows sprung between his brow, I think him apprehensive for the effect it might have upon his mother.

"You two are of a pair," Pelara says in the moment of silence, motioning between I and Nesta as she tosses the bundles to a basket at our feet and lowers herself to a stool beside me. "Neither of you will accept another's doing unless it done to your particulars."

I take breath to protest, but Pelara is the quicker to speak. "Or you would have had Master Herdir train up some youth in your stead, my lady," she insists.

"Very well," I say. "I shall see to it. At some point between begging Master Herdir to oversee the ploughing of our fields, the watering and harvesting of our crops, the safe storage and accounting of our grain, the upkeep of our ditches and dikes, the training of our oxen, the overwintering of our livestock, the culling of our herds, the fattening of our geese, the maintaining of our weirs, the ordering of men to glean what food we have been unable to raise ourselves from the forest hereabouts, and, lest we forget, now the selection and training of young men with thick arms and steady tempers to guard the seed we hope to put in the ground next month, I shall ask it of him."

"Pay heed, Master Edainion," Pelara says, and the boy raises his head from where he and Nesta have bent again to his journal. She jabs a finger in my direction. "Your lady mother is giving you a clear lesson in how not to govern a folk."

"It seems I am not performing my responsibilities to your particulars," say I. "Mayhap you would rather do them yourself?"

"I would not go tramping upon the meadows in all this wet and mud, not had I the choice, my lady."

"Mayhap, one day, then, you shall have the chance of making such decisions."

"Me? Sit at our lord's table and order things to my liking, as were I the Lady of the Dúnedain or a member of the Council?" she exclaims. "Ha! Begging your pardon, my lady, but we shall see the king returned and the glory of his lands reunited ere that ever happens in the Angle."

"_Ammë_ could send Ranger Saer to look after the sheep. He would know what to do. He knows everything," says Edainion, startling us into laughing at the sly smile he turns upon his work.

I had not thought he had noticed, but it seems my dislike of the youth who dogs his mother's steps had not passed him by. For both my lord's son and I greatly regret the departure of young Boradan, now full Ranger and learning his craft far from the Angle.

I should not laugh and thus encourage Edainion, but this new youth is of a sullen temper. Strictly adherent to all protocols and civilities he is and so I have little of which to complain of him to Halbarad. But he is much given to making solemn pronouncements and reciting the duties given to him by his captain when e'er I ask somewhat of him.

Oh, aye," says Pelara. "He is a piece of work. As thick as a brick of ox dung and as pleasant a company, he is."

"Hush, now," I say. "They will return soon."

"I think we should use the yarrow," says Edainion, looking up from his journal. "'Tis good to reduce swelling and stop bleeding, you said."

Nesta nods and drags the stone mortar into their cleared space. "'Tis a good choice, young master. Now see as you can find it."

"Aye, 'tis naught, Mistress." He peers into the rafters. "_Ammë_ grows some in our gardens and she keeps the dried stuff in the parlor."

Upon sighting the flowers amidst the tangle of other herbs, he darts to it, pointing upward. "There!"

"Aye, very good, young master." Nesta, having followed him, reaches above their heads and, with a smooth, practiced move, flips the bundle from its hook. "Now yarrow we call it here, but 'tis known by what other names?"

"'Tis _harwaloth_ in the language of the elves."

"Aye," she says, nodding her head, "and in the common tongue spoken by the Men of Bree?"

Edainion's face has twisted with his thoughts. He answers not but makes to turn to where his journal lies open upon the table.

The mistress catches him upon his back, bringing him about. "No, no, do not go looking. You should know this by now, Master Edainion."

He scrunches up his nose in thought and takes the bundle as the mistress lifts a small brazier from its place on a shelf from a tangle of pots and linen bags.

"Woundwart?"

Nesta chuckles. "A good guess, young master, as you are not far off. You might use it upon the wound of a wart should you have removed it from a body's skin. Now, get ye a good handful of it and put it in that mortar there and start grinding, _should it please thee_."

"Ah!" she cries and, taking him about the shoulders, maneuvers his hands and the bundle of dried yarrow to the table, "O'er the mortar, young master. 'Tis very dry and we will lose much to the floor should you attempt it there."

She has found a small beaten copper pot with a short spout and handles when next she speaks. "Woundwyrt 'tis called. 'Tis not particular about the soil but can be found growing best where there is good sun. Put it in a poultice to still bleeding or ease tight muscles. Make a tea of it to take down a fever or to tighten bowels."

My lord's son sets to banging the pestle against the mortar.

"Gently now, young Master. Else you might break the mortar in two should you hit it in just the right spot."

Pelara chuckles beside me. It seems the quick look he sent to his mother gave him some relief, for he found naught of censure there and, with more care, returns to his work. Round the bowl of the mortar the pestle goes with the grating noise of stone on stone.

Nesta has set coals from the hearth to belly of the brazier with a long set of iron tongs, when she draws water from a barrel by the hearth.

"Ah, sweet tears of Nienna," says Pelara low beside me, startling me into staring at her as she rises to her feet.

"You have bled straight through that, my lady," she says, passing behind me. She points at the cloth I hold pressed to my arm.

And indeed, blood trickles down my arm, mixed as it is with the water that has seeped from the cloth. So entranced had I been watching my lord's son at his lessons it had escaped my notice.

"The bowls are over there," says Nesta nodding at the shelf from where she ladles water into the copper pot.

"I know where you put them." By dint of squeezing her eyes shut and blowing into it, Pelara clears a shallow bowl of dust or aught else might have lingered there.

"See now?" she goes on, wagging the bowl at Nesta and then wiping at it with her apron. "'Tis not as had I given no attention to what you do. I have just little left for aught else when it is you I come to see."

With that, aught Nesta might have said is lost in the smack of the lips Pelara lays upon her cheek. For she has grabbed up the healer about her shoulders with one arm and pulled her to her. "Now give me that," Pelara commands, refusing to release her and nodding to the ladle.

Nesta, though she had grown pink about her cheeks, will have none of it. She shrugs her off the arm about her and yanks the ladle from Pelara's reach. "You and your flattery!" she grumbles. For all her protests, she draws water with it and fills Pelara's bowl.

I choke on my laughter, for my lord's son has ceased with all attempts at his task. He looks on with the widened eyes and gaping mouth he most oft reserves for his sires when he happens upon them embracing or, one memorable time, awoke rather earlier than we had expected.

"I warn ye, now," Nesta says, shaking the ladle at Pelara ere she drops it to the cask of water. "One of these days it will not be enough. I am not one of you and our lady's targets to be shot full of pretty words and promises."

"Come, my lady," Pelara says, ignoring all threats and letting the bowl thud upon the table and gesturing to me. "Let me have that and I will set it to rights." With this she plucks the linen from my fingers and wrings it out in the bowl and makes of it a folded pad. With her strong grip, she has me about my wrist and presses it firmly up and down the wound. Her touch is sure and steady, though she glances upon my face atimes. I am uncertain as to what lingers in her look, but, soon, I am left with a clean pad of cloth to press to my arm and a pat upon my shoulder to reassure me ere she returns to her seat.

Nesta sets the small beaten copper pot atop the brazier and then goes to lean o'er Edainion's shoulder. "Let us see what you have there."

"Hmm. I think we shall add some of this." Rummaging through linen sacks upon her shelves she plucks one out of the pile and unrolls its top. "_Gelirmall,_ she called it, which roughly translates to merry gold, I believe_._ And gold it is. Look here." She pulls a small handful of bright orange petals from within and stirs them in her palm with her forefinger.

"I have a lass of the wanderers learning the craft you should soon meet. She it is, Lenniel. She brought the seeds of it with her to the Angle and says it aids the healing. A good bit older than you, but she knows much of the herbs and roots growing upon the Wild having traveled upon it with her father since she was an infant. She has a touch of the old ways about her, as my mother would say. She had a good touch of it, herself, my mother, and would know when a fever was nigh breaking or a poultice needed changing long ere it was apparent. She just knew it in her bones, she would say. Should Lenniel put her mind to her lessons, I doubt not the lass could come to teach e'en your father a thing or two in her day." She squeezes the petals in her hand, kneading them between fingerpads and the meat of her thumb.

"There now," she says offering her closed hand to Edainion. "Give it a smell."

He dutifully leaves off with his grinding and lowers his noses to her hand and gives it a cautious sniff.

He shakes his head. "Should I remember it?"

"I would not think so," Nesta says and drops her handful of crushed petals to the mortar. "Will take several years ere you can know a plant by smell in each of its seasons."

Edainion takes up the pestle in his fist and mashes the petals into the mess of ground leaves and flowers with the end of it.

"She it was that said to add the rockfoil to that horehound tea I gave you for that cough and sore throat of yours. Do you recall it?"

"You said it would taste good," Edainion says flatly.

Mistress Nesta snorts. "Aye, well, true it is, I lied. I am afraid we have little honey to sweeten it, these days. So, the taste may have been a trifle strong."

"'Twas horrible!" Edainion shakes his head sharply, his mouth widened and tongue protruding in his remembered disgust.

"_Onya_," I say, my voice sharpening. I raise my head from where I fuss with the cloth upon my arm to find my lord's son's mutinous look.

"It was, _Ammë_. You said so, yourself."

"I said no such thing," I protest, but this, and my tut of vexation, just set Pelara and Nesta to laughing.

"I was merely begging your forbearance for the lack of sweetening," I go on. "Shall I not warn you, next you must drink of Mistress Nesta's draughts?"

Edainion makes a wry face at the thought. "I would rather not have to drink them at all."

"Nay my lady, he keeps good company," says Pelara when it seems I shall scold my son for his disrespect.

"Were they good tasting, Master Edainion, I would have the harder time keeping up my stocks," says Nesta. "I am hard pressed to compete with our folks' bellies as it is."

"Natheless," she goes on, urging him back to his work. "You and I shall have to go searching for it come this next summer and find a spot of shade in my gardens for it. Her folk call it _gondcrist_, for it splits rock clean through with its roots. Here we call it rockfoil. I know not all it does, but she said 'tis good for raising the phlegm from the lungs. For naught else, 'tis very hot and brings warmth to the throat to ease it when drunk."

The sun bursts in through the open door and a chill wind rifles rustling through the herbs above our heads.

Burdened as she is by both the bundle that is my infant daughter and flat-bottomed basket piled with dried herbs and roots, Elesinda must use both foot and hip to enter.

When the door bangs to a close behind her, and we can see again in the dimness, it is to find a sour look upon her face as she sets her basket at our feet.

"_Could he not even open the door for thee?" _ I rise from my stool, for Elenir's eyes have chanced upon her brother where he is lit by sun and hearth. She leans precariously against the nursing blanket binding her to Elesinda's breast o'er her coat, reaching for him.

Pelara puts a hand upon my shoulder, pressing me to my seat. "Nay, my lady, you stay there and tend to your wound. I have her."

"_I beg thy pardon, my lady,"_ Elesinda hisses low as she unwinds the nursing blanket from about her, her face a delicate pink with her exertions and the chill,_ "but how much longer must we endure the company of that self-inflated cox-comb?"_

I sigh and resettle. "_What has he done now?_"

Elenir quickly starts to keening her impatience and nigh climbs into Pelara's arms. For now, at the sound of my voice, she has caught sight of her mother. Her little face brightens within her woolen hood and cap and she babbles, "Am-am-am-am."

"Aye! So many of your favored folk in one place. Whatever shall you do?" croons Pelara as she struggles to settle my bouncing daughter against her hip.

"_Ne'er did he lift a hand to help me,"_ says Elesinda from about Pelara. _ "Though I have been from the southern to most northern tip of the Angle, but trailed along behind me with naught to say but advice I did not request of him on who might best have the herbs Mistress Nesta wished, which I most assuredly did not need." _

"_I have spoken to Halbarad,"_ I say. 'Tis not as had the youth shirked any specific duty named to him by his captain, but it is hard to say just what weight he gave to his lord's lady and those of his House. And for it, it does not appear he interpreted my directive to aid Elesinda in a manner at all in which I had intended.

"Did he make you carry that all the way hither?" asks Pelara, nodding to Elesinda's basket.

"Aye, Mistress," says Elesinda, struggling to divest herself of her coat now she is unburdened.

"She just said so," says Nesta, leaning upon her table and watching. "Do you not understand the Sindar tongue?"

"Oh, aye." Pelara shrugs. "But not when is it spoken with such heat and dispatch as that."

"Oh, my pardon, Mistress," says Elesinda, caught in the act of hanging up her coat, she falters.

Pelara waves her on to the hearth ere she returns to her seat. "I got the gist, girl. 'Twas not difficult to discern it, given your vexed look. No need repeating it. _Go warm thyself._"

Edainion has abandoned his work in favor of skipping about the table. Here he leans upon my arm where he may greet his sister. For Pelara had surrendered her to me ere the child might tumble from her arms in her eagerness for the kisses that awaited her. Once they are dispensed upon her cheek, Elenir giggles and clutches to her brother's hand and my chin so she might thrust herself up from my lap upon her unsteady legs. There she croons at her brother and pulls at his grip so she might grab at his curls. Of late, she has learned to pinch and become fascinated with them and aught else she might grab between fingers and thumb.

"E-dai-ni-on," my lord's son articulates clearly, attempting to catch her eye, for he is determined that his sister shall master his name first of all of her kin. "No, Elenir. Listen. Edainion."

When she does not answer, he repeats it. "Edainion. Say it," he commands, to which his sister happily buzzes her lips at him and smiles her wet, toothy grin beneath her woolen cap ere she plops to sitting upon the edge of the table.

"Does she hunger?" I ask Elesinda. Elenir stares intently at somewhat upon my breast and her brother gives up his attempts to make her speak. He leans his cheek against my arm and watches as his sister takes finger and thumb to my dress. Her little face frowns and her mouth works with her efforts as she plucks at the knots of woolen thread adorning the fabric about my neck.

"Not yet, I think, my lady," she says. "My mother had some sweet pottage and she ate some of it not long ago."

"I brought a bit of fine bread should she like," says Pelara.

"Nay, she will need to nurse soon and she should be hungry, else she will not settle to it."

"Elesinda has been spending much time with a family of the wandering folk," says Nesta. "'Tis Torald, aye? And his little girls?"

"Aye," says Elesinda, crossing behind her to the hearth where she rubs her hands vigorously and holds them above the flames. "He and my father have found their proximity much to each's advantage. As have my little sisters, as they are fond of my brothers, but are happy to find more willing playmates so close."

I know not the significance of this. It must show upon my face, for Nesta takes up the explanation.

"Most oft do the wandering folk speak the language of the elves amongst themselves, though the accent is somewhat strange. There are words I do not recognize atimes and 'tis said there are names they will not speak to those who are not kin amixed within."

"Aye, _Ammë_, Dammon speaks it too," says Edainion, referring to one of the boys of his playmates of late. "He could understand little of the common tongue at first, though when he learned enough of it, he hid it so he could play a trick on us."

"Oh," I say.

I have naught else to say on the matter, as I had not known of it. The knowledge of it stings, and though I try my best to hide it and return to watching my daughter. Her frown deepens. She wags her arms mightily and gives a frustrated shriek ere her fingers play upon the fabric again. Her little nails bite deep about a knot and she tugs upon it, grunting with her effort.

"It is not going to come off, Elenir," says Edainion, but she spares him little more than a glance ere she blinks and refocuses upon her goal.

"She's a determined one, that one is," says Pelara, shaking her head and, when this catches Elenir's attention, leans in to her. "Aye, that you are, _little one_. Are you not?" she says, smiling.

Elenir blinks and gapes at her ere Pelara bumps a kiss upon the child's brow.

"Make us some tea, would you Elesinda?" Nesta pushes off the table from where she had been leaning upon it and takes up a square of linen from the table to dampen it. "I have some chamomile we can use o'er in the cupboard and I have saved up the very last of the honey. Seems a good day for it, eh?"

"Aye, Mistress."

"Come, Master Edainion," Nesta says, folding the cloth upon itself. "The water is hot and ready for us to continue."

Soon, Elesinda has set a pot to boil upon the mistress' grate and cups afore us all. With a bit of cloth, Nesta takes up the copper pot and pours water through its spout. Steam arises bright in the light of the streaming sun and alights upon Edainion's brow where he peers into the mortar and stirs its contents.

"A bit of clay to make it stick and there you have it, young master," says Nesta to Edainion's pleased smile.

"I saw Elder Bachor, my lady," says Elesinda from where she scrapes at the bottom of the honeypot.

"Aye? And how is the Elder?" I ask, for I have not seen him since the Council and chiefs of the pledge met upon my lord's toft. It is not a pleasant remembrance. I have not spoken of it, though I doubt I have little need to.

"Well, I think, though he will take a good time more to heal. He said to tell you he was going to the barrows after the midday meal and wishes to meet you there." This last she says with some hesitance, her eyes darting to Pelara's ere she adds hot water to the pot and scrapes the corners to get the very last of the honey.

A quiet falls upon us at this. They watch me closely and it seems I cannot return their gaze. Mayhap I would have more to say, were not my children's ears within its hearing.

With the kisses I buzz upon her cheek and neck, Elenir has given up on her pinching in favor of squealing and tucking her head in close. Once I relent, she wraps her arm about mine and now settles her head to my breast. Soon, there, she breathes noisily and sucks on her fingers. I pluck the cap from her head now she has warmed and release the soft cloud of her dark curls. Her hairs crackle and cling to my fingers. _Ai!_ I have been too spare with the oil for her head, though we have so little left of it.

"Are you still resolved to go?" Pelara asks. She has taken up a bit of dried stem of somewhat and, for what of aught else to do in the quiet, strips it with her fingernails.

"I must, I think."

"Well, my lady, should you insist," says Nesta.

She leans with her knuckles upon the table, supervising my lord's son's efforts to spread the poultice upon the pad she prepared. His look is intent upon his work, but I doubt not he hears every word we speak.

"But, I beg you, shun the southwestern slope. Do not go near it and stay upwind an you must."

"Aye, I will stay away."

Pelara rubs fingers and thumb upon her brow and cheek, and turns away. I cannot see her face. But then, of a sudden, she slaps the tabletop and points her finger across the table at Nesta. "And I will have a word with that fool of a young Ranger ere she goes. I have not shared hearth with and buried three of our lord's men, grandsire, husband, and son, to have him sully their name."

'Tis then I see my lord's son's face, for he had fallen still and now looks upon me gravely. His eyes fall to my neck and I know them fixed upon the cut upon the skin there. 'Tis mostly healed and no longer pains me. I had told him what I could of what had transpired upon Master Bachor's toft but knew the tales and rumors I could not prevent would soon reach his ears. The whole Angle spoke of it, with good cause. For today, with the break in the weather, had I released Master Sereg's body to be buried.

"Come," I say. "Have you finished?"

He nods.

There they crowd about me while my daughter lies heavily upon my breast and looks on.

"Now do as we have practiced." Nesta takes up strips of linen and pulls them through her fingers to straighten them. "Always tell your patient what to expect and look to gain their consent ere you start."

Edainion holds up the pad on which he has spread the healing poultice he had prepared for his mother, where it steams gently.

"It will but sting for a little, _Ammë_. Can you bear it?" he asks and regards me earnestly.

His are not the only eyes upon me, watching solemnly. For even Elesinda watches me closely as she pours a pale, yellow tea to our cups and the mistresses watch not my lord's son, but keep a close eye upon me. It comes to me, then, ever since the fire and flight to the palisades, I have spent very little time alone.

No matter my amusement at Elesinda's lingering in the Angle's market upon her errands and urging that she take advantage of the time as her own, or assurance I can manage the accounting of what we have left in our stores without Pelara's aid, or walk to sheds or barns without the company of my lord's son, I have not been allowed it of late. For, should he hear my footsteps linger overlong in the buttery or approach the great door, sure it is I shall see my child's eyes peering closely at me as he lingers and leans upon the frame of the door.

Aye, _onya_." I smile upon him, though I know it is weak, and do what I can to forestall the tears that burn my eyes. "I will bear it."

~oOo~


	46. Chapter 45

~ Chapter 45 ~

_But soon there were few left in Minas Tirith who had the heart to stand up and defy the hosts of Mordor. For yet another weapon, swifter than hunger, the Lord of the Dark Tower had: dread and despair._

ROTK: The Siege of Gondor

~oOo~

_~ TA 3017, 20__th__ of Nénimë: 'Then did the women of the clans of the north call upon their men to honor oaths taken by their forefathers or be foresworn. For The Butcher of Umbar had followed those who had rebelled against him in their flight north to the hills of Arthedain. He took a seat in Angmar and there declared himself king. Once he had overrun Rhudaur and Cardolan, he set the hillmen upon the folk of the clans to reclaim them and exact his vengeance upon them. _

_'For not long after the Deceiver betrayed Númenor, the forefathers of the clans beheld the horror that they wrought in his name in Umbar. Gathering together, they called themselves the Defiant of Harad and, rising up, slew the Butcher of Umbar and his House. Few spoke of it who survived the horror of his return amongst living men, so heavy was the weight of the terror of their memories of it. And yet still they could not regret it and took upon themselves the name Gornwaith, the People of Defiance._

_'And so, in an hour of great need, once again did the sons of the People of Defiance arise and take arms against the Witch-king of Angmar. Answering the call of their young king, Araphor son of Arveleg, there the many clans of the Gornwaith joined the Elves of Lindon and flew down upon the Lord of Angmar where he lay siege to the royal city of Fornost._

_'Though the cost was dear, and the clans were much diminished in folk and their herds and pastures e'er after, ne'er did the Witch-king return to the North and their children were free to live in peace.'_

~oOo~

Many years ago, when the Dúnedain of the North retreated to the Angle, the folk took to this high place and erected a long hill o'er chambers of stone. There our forefathers could watch o'er the land they had claimed as theirs and bury their dead. Tall stones they carved from the cliffs where the Bruinen tumbles from the hills. They stand e'en now as sentinels about the entrance to the old barrow. But the barrow of stone is closed and has not been opened in generations beyond count. For, once filled, we lost the time to devote to building another and the skill with which to do it.

'Tis a rare thing, now, to lay stone upon this hill. For naught but the heirs of Isildur do the folk of the Angle haul stone up the long climb and mark their place. Most oft, we dig long trenches and, one by one, lay our folk within and cover them o'er with earth until they, too, lie beneath hills of tall grasses and flowers of buttercup, ox-eye daisies, knapweed, and corncockle.

'Twas not a pleasing thing to many, Sereg's death. There were those who called for sterner measures, who demanded I set my lord's men upon him and draw out his suffering for what he had cost us or to loosen his tongue. There were those who would have cast his body out upon the Wild and not lay his bones to rest among us. And for all the darkness of their thoughts, these did not puzzle me. Their thoughts I understood for the fear that drove them. 'Twas for those who remained silent, who said naught, but watched with keen eyes, for them I knew I must pronounce a swift fate and bring the matter to near an end as I could achieve. In the end, it seemed, I could strive to please none but myself.

"'Tis a matter for the Council to judge and the Angle's lord to pronounce sentence," had said Halbarad, though he looked upon me with some pity. "In Aragorn's absence, 'tis in your hands he left the matters of the Lord's law."

Upon my lord's toft, beneath the spreading arms of the oak, we gathered the Council and chiefs of the pledge as the Angle's charter demanded. There I pronounced sentence and my lord's men followed my command. In the last, Sereg caught my eye and begged for mercy ere my lord's men gagged him and forced him down. I neither offered it nor looked away.

There was no singing. No effort to present guests with food we could not spare. And no one to tell any tales. And yet, for my asking, my lord's men bore Sereg upon boughs of pine to this tall place and laid him in his grave. I doubt there are many of the Angle who would dare attend the man's burial, but there is one, and he stands now upon the crest of the hill, leaning upon his crutch.

Soft comes the sound of men and their spades. They hack at the turf, for the roots grew deep into the soil and we must expand our barrows into that which has yet been undisturbed. Mistress Nesta's cart lies empty and the linen-draped bodies of the dead lie in a row upon the dried grasses of the meadow. I doubt not she had chosen this day apurpose and knew few of our folk would travel hence.

He says naught when I come to stand beside him, nor looks upon me, but stares into the shallow well that is Sereg's last resting place. I set down my basket, now empty of the herbs we had gathered, and lean to the broken earth. There I take up a handful of dirt from between the grasses. When Master Bachor struggles to attempt the same, I offer some of what I have taken. No matter what complaint I have of him, Sereg was a man of the Dúnedain of the Northlands, and remains so, whether living or dead. The dirt is cold with the frost that lies upon it, but together, without word, we let it fall to the linen that winds tightly about him. They will come ere long and fill in the grave and build the mound above it. There is naught left to do, for they covered his face ere he was borne here. And so, instead, we stand at the lip of where he is laid and are silent.

"Your kin, Master Bachor, how do they fare?" I ask after some time in which he does not speak.

At first, I think he will pass off the question with some pleasantry, but then he shrugs a little. "As well as you would think. The youngest will not sleep unless I lay down with him. The eldest is still not fully convinced he could have done naught, and the boy between them, he is too quiet for my liking. Einiond?"

Here he sighs and shakes his head. "He cannot settle and loses restraint at the least of things, and he usually so good with the children. It matters not what I try with him. Matilde has kept them at home. I would think you understand why."

I nod and can think of naught to say.

"His lands are forfeit and are the House's should you so claim them," he says, not looking upon me but motioning to the open earth at our feet.

"No," I say. "I would rather they revert to those whose claims took precedence ere his."

"And so I am to have my fields, again, and you your father's house. We fare rather well in the bargain, then, would you not say?" he asks, the bitterness in his voice giving lie to his words.

"No, sir, I would not." Indeed, there is much that was done that cannot be undone and I know not when we shall last feel the effects of it.

"No."

I think then our conversation ended, for I can find little else to say and Master Bachor leans heavily upon his stick and speaks not.

'Tis chill in this high place, where the wind races o'er the high tips of the trees upon the hillside below us. I would be glad to turn my back to it.

"Do you still keep the rituals of the High Days of_ Aderthad a Egleria_?"

The question comes of a sudden and I stare at Master Bachor a moment ere his words make sense. Even then I cannot discern his mind, for his face has not changed and he yet stares at the body afore us. Both of our houses kept the traditions of the high days of reunion and pleas for mercy first set by the wandering clans of the north and passed down to us, their children.

"I have been thinking," he goes on, "of what I know of our kin and forefathers who fled Umbar so long ago. I thought it enough, ere now. Truly it had been enough for those folk whose sires were born here to call me a son of the wandering clans, or Southron, when their thoughts were less than kind. But I know naught but what a child knows; the rituals of the high days of praise and stories told by my grandsire of his clan and of the land o'er which they drove their herds. In his day, so plentiful were the lines of trade with our folk in the north we had not enough men to attend to them. I was to travel there with your sister, to see to what was left and to find what we could of your mother's folk. But then Father died, and Laenor –"

Here he stops and falls quiet for a moment. He rubs at the growth of beard upon his jaw, dark against his bronze skin. "But now it has dwindled to naught and I never went."

I can think of but one reason he would wish to speak upon this matter now of all times.

"I am well aware of the ways in which I failed Sereg and his house," I say, cutting him off ere he can speak again. "You need not tutor me in them!"

"Indeed? Think you so?"

'Tis only now does he turn to me. "I am surprised you got as many of the folk from outside the Angle to make oath to the pledgeholders as you did, and most of those from the south. Did you know that the men of the northern wandering folk do not hold oaths? It is their women who do. 'Tis the _híril_, the lady of the clan's House who guards all things that must be preserved; the house and hearth upon their winter pastures, the peace among the clans, and the oaths that bind one to another."

The look he turns to me is severe, and I find it hard to bear. Bitter is the taste of this knowledge and difficult to swallow. For I did not know of this. Keenly do I feel the lack of voices that could tell me such things.

He leaves off staring at me, and, with a sharp gesture, flings the last of the dirt in his hand to the grave. "But mayhap they were just desperate enough."

"There is no faster way to make those who have fled here a pariah among our folk than for me to show them favor," I snap, tucking my hands into the crook of my arms beneath my hood.

Bachor makes a rude noise. "And whose fault is that?"

"What chance have I of increasing the numbers of the chiefs of the pledge from among the wandering folk?" I demand, grown hot with his accusation. Ever was he slow to look to his own failings. "There they could make oaths as they see fit and need not sacrifice what is dear to them to secure their own safety and there might be more than just my voice speaking for them afore the Council. But I cannot do it of my own nor through any who might be known as my ally. No matter who we put forward to the hallmoot, he would be but seen as the House's tool. Where would your vote be placed, Elder? Would you stand behind the House should it make such an effort? Or, should you not support my efforts, would you take them on as your own?"

I need not look upon him to know he is frowning, his face soured with his thoughts.

"No, you would not, would you," I go on flatly. "For more chiefs of the pledge would increase the votes of the House upon the Council. So speak not to me of neglect and how I have taken advantage of our kin's fears until you have removed yourself as my greatest impediment.

"Ever it is a negotiation with you; a jostling for power and position," I say.

He lets loose a harsh breath and raises his voice. "Do not think me chastened, my lady. Should this be the only lesson you would take from what I said, then upon my truth, let us have it out! Know this; I would have men of our wandering kin as chiefs of the pledge and Elders upon the Council both, but only were your husband to sit upon the Council himself."

"Have I done so poorly in your eyes?"

"Ah!" He waves his hand in a sharp gesture of dismissal. "You have done well enough. But the lord of the Dúnedain is not here with his people. No, he has gone off on some errand among the high and mighty of elves and wizards; off on errantry of his own devising, with not a word of where and when to expect him back. An your husband refuses to put the folk of the Angle's concerns first, then I will block all and every attempt by the House to hold more sway o'er them."

"Aye, well, mayhap then our folk will find unity under you in their distrust of the House."

"I will not allow any one of the people under my care to suffer, could I prevent it, but I do not hope for such a thing, my lady."

Ah, indeed he might say so, but his ambitions put the lie to it. My skepticism must show upon my face, for he stabs at the man at our feet.

"With this deed have you sealed your fate. To a man born of the Angle many find you as strange as had our lord brought home a foreign bride, no matter who your father or the facts of your birth. And, now, to those who came from without, e'er shall you be a stranger, when it need not have been so."

"You think I should have shown mercy?" I ask. "What? Banished him to the Wild, where he could align with those who have argument with our lord's men as it is? And what should he tell them of the Angle and our defenses? Even had he no knowledge of the attack that came upon us, he was such a man as would take advantage of the movements of our Enemy to deal death in pursuit of his own cause. At best, shall we now fight upon two fronts when just the one is more than we can manage? At worst? He was in league with our Enemy and knew when to strike and we shall then have given them news of just how poorly defended we are? Had he not raised a hand to me or threatened my lord's heir he was such a man as to give aid and comfort to our Enemy and slew a man of the Dúnedain without just cause in the act of it. Any of these would have earned him his sentence twice o'er."

"You are so afraid from the threat from without, my lady, you have given little thought to what shall come from within."

"I am not blind to it. But had you thought those born of the Angle disposed to think me preferential to those who have fled here afore, would be not like should I have followed your advice."

He shakes his head, his lips pursed. "Those born of the Angle who cannot see you as one of them will never think you aught but of the wandering clans of the hills, lady. They have but to look at you and see your brown skin and their mind is already fixed. When it comes to it, they shall turn their backs to you.

"Think you those who have your ear can assist you with this? Halbarad cannot help you in this. That youth, that boy playing at a man you brought here today?" He stabs his crutch at the distant head of the path within which Ranger Saer lingers in the shadows and waits. "Did Halbarad not recommend him to you? Made he a good and true accounting of his reliability and faithfulness? Halbarad has not the eyes to see it. He will ne'er see. He cannot. Be rid of that boy, and quickly, too. You are safer without the pretense of his guard. He is one of them, they who will take all you do and do naught but twist it to reinforce their distrust of you, and they shall recognize it in him."

I shift upon my feet and clutch my arms more tightly, ere I catch myself and bring stillness. For I think my heart had known it, but I had listened only to my head. But still, I would not let slip my dismay for Bachor to latch upon.

"An you thought to court their good opinion, those like him, it has come at a cost with little to be gained," he goes on. "You think you have the measure of the ways in which you failed Sereg? I know not all the ways I failed him, and he lived under my care and had my ear. There is a deep well of ways in which I failed him I have yet to fathom."

I have had enough. Let him talk. It matters not. What good the knowledge of it an I cannot do a thing to unwind the weaving and repair the fault nor change the pattern by which the cloth shall be made.

"Should you and your oathmen have need of aid to replace what was lost in the fire, Master Bachor, no matter our disagreements you have but to say the word –"

"Would it have been so ill to live with those of my house?" he asks, as had I said naught. "There are those there who care for you. My brother still asks are you of an age to marry, despite the many years since we first begged off his appeals. And my sister adored you, do you not recall it? She once dressed you in her finest silks and linens and set ribbons to your hair."

"I was not her plaything and I am no longer a child!"

"No, you are not, my lady." He pauses and regards me steadily for a moment. "Your father came to me when your aunt was failing and begged me to recall the oath I had given him to care for you when I married your sister. For he knew one day you would be alone. But you chose this instead. You chose this."

"What of it?" I demand. It comes not as a surprise my father had wrung such an oath from him, but I find I cannot account for how deeply it stings.

"I need not your aid," he says. "It may not be what it once was, but my folk are provided for."

"How is this?" I demand, turning upon him. Ah! For, indeed, it should not be so had our accounting of his stores been true.

"None of the Angle need suffer," he insists, coming close. "My lady, you have but to allow it, and I will pull every favor I am owed, every debt I have purchased, every measure of coin I own, every line of credit I can wrangle, and I will fill every pantry and granary to feed us twice o'er. I beg you, Nienelen! Unleash me and I will lay every acre of my family's land at the feet of the money lenders for it, an I must. We could then trade with the folk of the Shire or Chetwood or Bree and spend little effort doing it."

Here he stands so near, should I take a deeper breath we would touch.

"We have not the men to ensure the safety of those of our folk who might be willing to travel – "

"Do not mistake me for a fool, my lady!"

His eyes search mine with an earnestness I had not thought he still possessed. I know not what else to say. All that I cannot say of my lord's hopes and fears as they reside to our east are as a stopper within my throat.

Bachor huffs a sharp breath and steps away, his eyes now hard upon me. "Then you will not. You cannot. For our lord will not allow it. And you will not go against him.

"Should you thought to e'er know much of your mother's kin, and the folk whose name by which you will be known and judged, then I pity you, Nienelen. Oh, they will speak you fair to your face, but our wandering kin will have weighed the fine calculus of your decisions. Already the folk wonder why you keep such a sharp grip upon any who might go beyond the Angle's bounds. You most thoroughly silenced the one man who had the temerity to point out your lack. After this last, and you still do naught to allay their fears or give them hope, I doubt now you will come to know a single one of them.

"This will not be the last Mistress Nesta must have her cart hauled up this hill," he says, thrusting his chin at the southwest corner where lies the line of linen-bound forms. "Make no mistake, my lady, this is but the beginning. Should you not change your course, every grave we dig and every barrow we build above it, no matter how many, will be done by your hands. Not by the lord Aragorn, not his kinsman Halbarad, not his House no matter how great and noble he would make it, but you. We will weaken beneath the burden of want and suffer and die because of you."

_Ai!_ I have no answer I can give him and it not threaten the very hope I have been charged to protect. I had not thought I still cared aught for Bachor's regard, yet I cannot look upon him and bear the disdain in his eyes.

"What price did you pay for your comfort, Nienelen?" he asks. "Tell me. Is it worth it?"

And as had he regret for the pain visited by his word, he sighs, his shoulders softening. "Will you not allow me -?"

"No!" I say, and for all my tears, my voice is firm.

He halts and stands staring at me, his mouth working against the bitterness of his thoughts.

"On your head be it then," he says and, turning away, takes a final look at the man at our feet. "I wish you had not married him, Nienelen."

He has not gone but a halting step or two, when he turns about of a sudden. "And you may stop with your attempts to discover my sources of wine and aught else I might see fit to have brought to the Angle. Halbarad has beaten you to it. I've not seen my man from the south in six months, now, and have had no word of him."

With these words then, Master Bachor turns his back to me and makes his slow way across the uncertain tangle of dead grasses and wet soil.

The wind brushes chill against my cheeks and I swipe against the tears fallen there, clearing my throat. Nay, I will not let more fall.

_Ai! _ Greatly do I miss my lord and his counsel, but I think not even he could guide me in this.

For here where the wind of the north bears down upon us, I stand upon the boundary of earth and sky as were I not of either world. And but for Sereg, who remains silent, I am alone.

~oOo~


	47. Chapter 46

~ Chapter 46 ~

"_Peace and freedom, do you say? The North would have known them little but for us. Fear would have destroyed them. But when dark things come from the houseless hills, or creep from sunless woods, they fly from us. What roads would any dare to tread, what safety would there be in quiet lands, or in the homes of simple men at night, if the Dúnedain were asleep, or were all gone into the grave?"_

FOTR: The Council of Elrond

~oOo~

_~ TA 3017, __7th day of Yavannië__: Increase portioning of tithe to the following households of the kin of our lord's men fallen in defense of the folk of the Dúnedain: Aurben, Lagordir, Bronwechon, Trenardir, and Melethron. Mistress Pelara to speak to Masters Curudir and Mahtan and Mistress Tanril to beg they apprentice Ranger Muindir at their smithy, should he survive his maiming sustained in the service of our lord._

~oOo~

"Payment of two sheep in recompense to those harmed by his actions and two weeks foraging upon the Wild to be served at Master Herdir's request."

Master Tanaes shakes his head yet makes note of the sentence in the Council's great book. "Any protest?" he asks, not looking up.

"Have you protest to make?" I ask Elder Tanaes, for, though it is the House that shall pronounce judgment, any of the Council may raise objection or beg its alteration. 'Tis his own oathman we discuss, and Tanaes may have somewhat particular to say on the man's account.

"Nay, my lady," he says, pausing in his work. "The sentence is just. Eston will not like it much, though, and your young Ranger should be prepared for it when he brings him afore us to tell him of it."

"I shall tell him." For the man in question, with others on whom we have pronounced guilt, cool their heels outside my lord's great door, waiting for us to conclude all other business.

Elder Fuller returns to picking at his nails and Elder Bachor seems greatly taken with somewhat he notes on his hinged wax tablets. Elders Maurus and Lorn are not in attendance, one taken to his bed, the other seeing to a disagreement among his pledgeholders that erupted yestereve. Elder Landir is in attendance, but I think him nigh asleep, for he breathes heavily and his head nods atimes.

Master Tanaes finishes and wipes upon his brow with his wrist. Aye, we are hard upon the days of the fall harvest, but you would not know it for the mildness of the sun behind its ever-present veil. A breeze flows steadily through the windows of my lord's hall, cooling us within. Oft florid of face, Master Tanaes sweats more with his exertion than I recall and labors for his breath atimes. He had arrived upon the Council's gathering winded, white of face, and blue about the lips. Until this point, he had said little.

"I am ready, my lady. What of Master Maelon?"

I glance upon my notes ere speaking. "Repair of the fencing and return of all of Master Thurindir's beasts or recompense for those lost. One week of hard time labor within the Angle of Master Herdir's determination spread across this next year," say I, and would think the matter settled but for the restive glances between the Elders seated about my lord's table.

"Do you not think that somewhat," and here Master Tanaes pauses, "light for the offense?"

"What do you mean?"

"Master Thurindir's family has little enough, they can ill afford the loss of any of their pigs or goats."

"And I have pronounced judgment of reparation or repair owed, and yet this seems not to satisfy you. Speak plainly, Elder Tanaes."

He sighs and schools his face to stillness ere speaking. "You cannot keep with this preference for the wandering folk, it will serve us no good in the end."

Bachor shifts in his seat, toying with the edge of his tablet, but says naught. Instead, his gaze turns upon Elder Fuller and there he stares at him as had the man sprouted ears of the Elder-born.

"I pronounced the same sentence for Master Iston," I snap. "You complained of no preference then."

"Aye, and found no fault with it. It befit the effect of his offense upon the folk of the Angle. The loss of just one beast of our livestock could mean great privation for a family of the Angle. I would think it would earn the wanderer somewhat harsher."

"Master Maelon has three small children, none of whom can assist their mother in the provision of their care. He has taken no oath. He has no pledgeholder nor fellow oathmen nor kin nor oathbound clan upon the Angle to care for those dependent upon him in his absence. They suffer enough for his imprudence and neglect.

"No," I continue and, the ink upon my journal now dry, slap the cover closed. "I will visit no more hardship upon them than I can avoid."

"Other arrangements could be made," Elder Tanaes says, his voice grown soothing as were he speaking to a recalcitrant child.

Ah, I cannot achieve what I must without the man's backing, but I tire of him atimes. I cannot raise my voice without his attempts to pour oil upon water I deem needs troubling. He did not do so when it was my lord who sat upon this chair, nor does he temper his own voice so.

He goes on, "We need not – "

"Aye, I deem we all agree Maelon has well-earned his lack of friends among our folk," interjects Elder Fuller. He seems to have come to some decision and now raises his voice where afore he had been silent. With one last flick of his eyes at Bachor, he continues. "I, myself, find should there be one good that comes of how little ale we can brew these days 'tis he cannot drink more of it and impose upon his neighbors as is his wont. But 'tis the House's right to distribute mercy as well as justice. Should the Lady determine mercy is best, I am willing to leave it to her."

"Aye, I agree. Have we done now with Master Maelon's business?" says Bachor and lets slip the butt of his stylus from his fingers ere he picks it up again in thoughtless repetition. "Can we not now return to discussion of the attack upon our lord's men north of the Angle?"

"To what end, Master Bachor?" I ask, for we had spent much of the first hour of the Council worrying the issue between the five of us there ere we had turned to other matters.

"Are you certain we need make no other preparations?" he asks.

"I have already told you all I know of it. We can but be watchful as always and ensure the palisades are fortified and our folk ready should we need to retreat there. And this I have already done. It has not been even a full day since my lord's men made their way back to the Angle. Mayhap I could beg your forbearance allow them a little more time."

"Do we not know their aim nor how the approach of such a great force upon the Angle was unmarked?"

"I had not those answers for you an hour ago, Master Bachor, and have not stumbled upon them since. We shall have to wait for Ranger Halbarad's return to know more," I say and hope the issue closed.

_Ai! _ I should soften my voice. For Bachor kneads at his brow as had my words caused him pain. He speaks out of fear and well am I acquainted with it. Had I any reassurances to give, I would give them. I have none.

"What then am I to tell my chiefs of the pledge, my lady?" Bachor leaves off worrying at his brow and tosses his stylus to the table where it clanks dully against his cup. "_I beg thee._ Have you naught more you can say?"

"Should you wish more, Master, you may follow our lord's men north where you may ask them of yourself," I say and then must press my lips together. 'Twas a petty thing to say and not like to help matters. I already I regret it.

And, indeed, it does not help, for Master Bachor's face grows pinched and his voice rises.

"My lady, believe it or no, I am your most loyal subject," he says. He takes up his stylus again and gestures about the table with its tip. "Every one of us here must field our folks' complaints. Already, I am strained to my limit in your defense. Should you have no satisfaction to give, I cannot account for our folk's actions. For, come the next hallmoot, should I have naught that satisfies them, I shall no longer be able to hold them back and they shall call for a vote for your removal from the Council."

When I have no immediate reply, he rubs at his face and draws his hands from brow to the ends of the dark curls where he grasps tightly upon them at the back of his neck. With a jerk, he pulls his hands free to slap his wax tablet closed upon itself, his face pained.

"I do not envy your position, Master Bachor," I say and, when he turns a sour look upon me, raise my hand to forestall him. "I speak not in bitterness, nor in jest, Elder."

At this, I breathe deep and set aside my journal, grateful Bachor seems ill-disposed to speak further as he fumbles with the tablet's embossed leather pouch. _Ai! _ Should I not have somewhat of hope to offer, at the least I should give somewhat of reassurance he and the other Elders need not face our folk alone. I should say somewhat of my own fear, buttress their resolve with a call to faith in our lord, his kinsman, his men, and his House. Surely, should I open my mouth, the words shall come to me. They are no stranger to me. I have said them afore.

But the silence lengthens until it rings in my ears. They wait and I can do naught but stare at the hearth in the midst of my lord's hall, where his son's toys lay scattered about it.

Soon, I hear naught o'er the roaring in my ears and it seems the very air thins about us. I know not what has its grip about my throat. But it will not let me speak. The words that crowd upon my tongue have naught to do with faith and forbearance. Should I give them voice, I think I might just provoke Master Bachor into doing exactly as he has threatened. I struggle to draw breath to speak.

"Mistress Nesta has begged the ear of the Council," I say at last.

They stir in their seats. Elder Bachor stops with jabbing his stylus into the leather pouch and stares at me.

"What is her complaint?" asks Elder Fuller, when it seems Bachor shall not protest.

"She wishes to beg for expansion of the sickhouses and the setting and issuing of policies and practices to contain the spread of the coughing plague."

This has their attention. They shuffle upon the benches, making room so Mistress Nesta might sit amongst them. Once Master Fuller ushers her from the great door, they attend closely. But she will say naught we have not already beaten to a fine pulp, Pelara, Nesta, and I. I have no quarrel with the Mistress and, indeed the need is great, but I cannot look upon her. Nor can I listen.

Bachor sits attentive, though his eyes are fixed upon the table. He has wrapped a hand about his mouth and his eyes are grim. He does not look upon me, though it is as all else of his being is trained upon me. For I can do naught but stare at him.

He bears about him signs of neglect as I had not seen afore. Threads at the edge of his sleeves have come loose and a thin line of grime besmirches the finely woven collar about his neck were afore he would not have permitted it. He most oft goes cleanshaven, but a dark shadow lies upon his cheeks and jaw as I had not seen since the days after my sister's death. My thoughts are not upon him and I know he grows unnerved by my regard for the restlessness of his fingers upon the wood of my lord's table, and yet I cannot drag my eyes away.

~oOo~

"If my Bronon and our Stevan do not return, I do not know what we shall do, my lady."

The bench beneath Mistress Linnadis creaked, burdened as it was with her rocking and the young lad she had bundled in a blanket upon her lap. 'Twas little to be seen of him but the shock of his dark hair upon the wool and the pale sheen of sweat upon his brow and freckled nose. Sunk deep in the sleep of a young child, his eyes fluttered atimes, but he roused neither with our soft speech, nor with the promise of food made to his brothers and sisters upon the start of our visit. I doubt not they had bartered away much of what had been left for his care. In the rotation of our visits, Mistress Pelara, Elesinda, and I, Elesinda had given report of his illness and his mother's desperation for it. They had lost an infant to ill health not long ago and she knew the terror of it when her son took to coughing.

The mistress and I sat upon their bench, for it was the sole piece of furniture left to them. What little light there was came through the lowset door that even her eldest child, a girl of ten years, must duck to get through. They had ne'er had beds nor had they much to line the shelves behind their hearth. The dirt floor had long ago cracked and crumbled beneath their feet, and they had not the curdled milk and lime-ash to restore it to its former hard polish. But I had not seen their hall so bare as it was now. A single room about the hearth, and they had blankets but naught of sleeping mats, nor tools, nor toys that I could see. No wonder it was then the children's father and his younger brother had volunteered to go aforaging, no matter the danger. They would be allowed to keep up to one fourth of what they had culled.

"Linnadis?" comes a soft, querulous voice from the far corner of the room where lies their sole mattress. I had thought, at first, 'twas a pile of blankets, but then it moved. 'Twas none other than Master Bronon's own aged mother. Her hair and face as white as the bedding on which she lay and her eyes clouded with the years, she seemed leeched of all color. She lifted her head and tugging at the blankets about her with little effect, so weak was she.

"Aye, Mother Herethil. What need have you?"

She did not answer at first, pushing fretfully upon the blanket as were she attempting to rise and see to their guest. "Who is it Linnadis?" she croaked.

"Get ye some rest, now, Mother," said Mistress Linnadis. "I have it. You need not get up."

Mistress Herethil peered uncertainly across bedding and hearth and I wondered at what she could make out. "That's naught but Mistress Elenir, is it? Mistress is that ye?" she calls, raising her voice. "Have you brought your little Laenor? Such a darling thing, she is."

"Not today, I am afraid, mistress," I said.

Mistress Herethil tutted and laid back down upon the mattress. "She'll turn all the Angle's heads with those big, dark eyes of hers and head of curls, that one, you mark my words. You bring her next time, aye? Such a pretty little thing. Not seen her like in an age."

"Aye, Mother, rest now. We shall have somewhat to eat later."

Mistress Herethil frowned. "I am not hungry," she stated flatly.

"We shall see," said Mistress Linnadis.

"We shall see. We shall see." Mistress Herethil shuffled beneath her blankets and pulled them closer. "I am not a child, whether you think or no," she grunted irritably.

Mistress Linnadis said naught in response, but shook her head and rocked her son.

"Has she been like this for long?" I asked, my voice low.

The mistress fussed with the blanket tucked about her son's face. "Nigh a fortnight, now. 'Tis useless to argue with her and bless ye for humoring her, my lady. She'd had her bad days afore, but not like this. In truth, I would not have thought she would have recalled your mother, my lady, she has been so bad. Half the time she knows not e'en where she is, but cries for her own mother and father as were she a child."

"Will she eat, do you think?" I ask and wondered should I have brought more of broth and less of bread.

Mistress Linnadis sighed and, it seemed, could not speak for fear of what she might have to say. For 'tis when hunger no longer bites that the danger is nearest.

"I know the hours of night are the hardest," I went on when the silence between us lengthened, "when your belly is empty and your children crying, and there is naught in the night to comfort you. Like mine, your men have set themselves a task for your betterment, and will not return until it is done. But, do not despair. We must keep the faith, aye? We shall see them again. And you are not alone. We will see to things ere he returns."

She sniffed and nodded. I supposed that must do.

"I think it best we find a different pledgeholder for you and yours," I said. "What think you?"

"That blaggard!" she cried, roused from her despondency at the mention of him. Had I thought she had not much to say, I now found myself sorely mistaken, for her voice rose as had I unstoppered a shaken bottle of ale. "He has not done us as he should, has Master Gworon. He sets naught to my complaints. He will listen to none but my husband, as he has no oath to any other, he says. Not that it did much of good when Bronon could get him to listen. He claims there is naught he can do. But, he knows you and your women come visiting and thinks he can ignore us and we be humored enough not to cause him trouble. But there is little work with the harvests so poor and we've bartered or sold away all we could; even the children's toys, my lady, though it broke my heart to do it." She paused to tuck the blanket more tightly about her son's face, as it had loosened in her rocking him against her. "Och, my lady. Soon ye will have to sit upon the dirt with us should you come avisiting again."

"Should he wish, your husband can bring complaint against Master Gworon at the hallmoot once he is secure under another's pledge. Indeed, I wish he would. 'Tis not the first I have heard against him and other chiefs of the pledge. It is sure to worsen should we give no heed to it."

With this, I rose from the bench. We shall come soon upon the even's meal, and I could see naught of bread upon their shelves nor pottage upon their hearth for the mistresses or their children.

"Shall I set the pease to cooking, Mistress? Ye have your hands full, there, and I doubt that bit of bread shall hold your children long, aye?"

"Oh, that's a blessing," she said, it seemed in great relief. "An it not too much to beg of you, my lady, should ye remember the way of it, ye being the lady and all. This is the first good sleep my Tinnon has gotten since he fell ill, and I would not wish to disturb him."

Her iron pot dangles o'er the hearth upon chains from the beam above our heads. This, at least, she had not had to barter away quite yet.

"I think I shall be able to muddle my way through it, Mistress," I said, smiling. What must she think I do with my days?

"Master Gworon will not like it much, my lady," she said, pointing out the kindling in a wooden bin below the shelves behind us. "I have been to Elder Lorn twice, as it is. Gworon will not take it kindly if there be a third."

"He will have little he can do about it, now will he." I suppose I must give thought to Master Gworon's feelings upon the matter at some point, no matter the long history between us. Elder Lorn has begged consideration for two others to be made pledgholders among his kin. Mayhap there is somewhat could done about it in exchange.

"You are not afraid he would do you harm, are you Mistress?" I asked and, at the thought, rose swiftly from where I picked out twigs and other such to restart her fire.

"Oh, he'll be as uncivil as he pleases," she said and waved a hand, "No, my lady, 'tis against you he will speak and get them riled up again."

I shrugged, dropping a log beside the hearth and kneeling there so I might stir the ashes in search of coals. To my relief, the hearth gives off a faint warmth. It seems, mayhap, they had somewhat to eat earlier in the day, should it not have been no more than hot water for a tea to keep their bellies feeling full.

"So have I heard. You need not concern yourself with it. If they'll talk, they'll talk."

"My lady, they say ye are not fit to lead the men of the Angle! And that we'd not be in these straits were our lord home or it were a man of the Angle who said what would be done for it. They will not like it, you interfering, as they see it, ye being both woman and Southron born."

At this, my breath stopped for the shock of it. _Ai! _ I have grown unused to guarding my heart when speaking to the folk of the Angle, and the word stings. For a moment, I could do naught but stared upon the small bit of glowing coal I had scooped from the bottom of their hearth.

A thin trail of smoke arose from the bundle in my hand and then a burst of flame as the kindling caught alight. I set it upon the nest of twigs I had laid upon the hearth and allowed myself the preoccupation of feeding the flames as they grew.

"My lady, you've been naught but kind to me and mine. There's not a cotter on the Angle who would not say the same. I will not lie to you. We have not been more desperate, all of us. It has happened afore for us with no land or our own, and will happen again and again. 'Twas naught but a bad chill, but I thought for sure my little Tinnon here was lost. I'll not regret a single thing we've traded away and, for my little ones, I will take what aid you would offer and bedamned my pride. But it breaks my heart should it give them cause to act against you or the House."

I peered up at the beams, puzzling out the mechanism by which to lower the pot closer to the hearth. "Then we'll go to Master Fimon first, eh? He has fewer oathmen than most and not known to ally himself with the House," said I. "Master Gworon might still complain, but the move shall give them no cause for great alarm. Will that do, Mistress?"

"Aye, my lady," she said, pinching at her lip between her teeth. "It may put them off for a little."

I lifted the pot from the hook upon which it dangled and set it lower. I had cooked the pottage down so I could fit more in the jar I brought. It could use some water to thin it out and keep it from burning.

"That will put my Bronon in the midst of them that talks against ye and the House, will it not?"

At this I halted in the act of reaching for the dipper floating in their water barrel by the door. I stared at her, aghast.

"What are you suggesting?"

"_We could give thee word of their doings,_" she said, looking intently upon me.

_Ai! _"Nay! You shall do no such thing!" I turned my back to her and poured water to the now empty jar and swirl it about to loosen the last of the pottage, but still I could hear the small sound she made in response and the creak of the bench as she rocked her son. 'Twas clear I had not convinced her.

"'Tis not for this I have given you aid or suggested a change in your pledgeholder," I said, and, considering the matter done, poured the water from the jar into the pot. I held my skirts out of the way and kicked at the wood to encourage its burning.

"Mayhap it should be."

"You are a daughter of the Dúnedain of the North and I am sworn to your aid and protection, Mistress. Naught else."

_Ai! _ She had set her mouth and though she would not dare give contradiction to the Lady of the Dúnedain, 'twas clear she had her own thoughts on the matter. I shook my head, but could think of naught else to do but searching about in my basket.

I set loaves of bread upon their shelf and stirred the pottage of pease, garlic scapes, and sorrel in the pot. The wood had caught and the contents of the pot begun to warm. The smell set my own mouth to watering, so thin had been our commons of late.

"Who should I be speaking to should we hear somewhat?"

I sighed and, dropping my wooden spoon into the pot, returned to the bench where I could sit next to the Mistress. "Should any of the Angle hear aught that is cause for alarm, they could speak to the baker. He will get word to his father or Master Tanaes."

She nodded, her look grim but determined.

"But you and your husband will not go looking for it," I said. "And only should there be plans to take action. Talk has as much worth as the soles of a pauper's shoes. Swear to me, Mistress. I'll not have your blood on my hands either."

"Aye! Aye, my lady!" She lifted a hand as were it to ward away my ire. "Should it fall in our lap and give us alarm, then."

Oh, _ai! _ What have I done? I rubbed at my brow.

Ah, there is naught for it, now she has set her mind to it. I can only hope she shall not be made to suffer for her aid.

I have replaced the lid to the jar and wrapped it tight in the linen in which it had been bundled. It sits snug in my basket and I had given the pot one last stir, but I still could not bring myself to leave. And so, I sat beside the mistress, pulling the basket up to where it nudged against my ankle.

"Why would you risk this?" I asked and Mistress Linnadis left off watching the pease as they began to bubble about the edges of the pot.

"My lady, ye have given me naught but sign you care deeply for those of the Angle, be you of here or no, and are doing all within your power to give us aid," she said and shrugged a little. "Should ye not have done more, then 'tis because you cannot."

_Ai!_ Were it as simple as that.

"I have but one thing to beg of you, my lady."

"What is it?" I turned to her the better to see her, wedging my hands in my skirts between my knees for want of knowing what else to do with them.

"I want peace, my lady," she said, though her voice sounded small and tired. "When this is done, and our lord returned, or, Valar forbid, he has given it his last and we are not to see him again, then I want peace. I want my children grown in a world where the shadow means naught but cool air and the blessedness of sleep about the hearth at night." She glanced at the small face tucked at her breast and grimaced, her eyes filling quickly. The boy had stirred a little, but now drew a long, sighing breath and stilled. It seemed she was done, but she then cleared her throat and blinked back tears. "That is what I want, my lady."

She huffed out a breath and returned to slowly rocking her son. "And should I have to risk a mob of men turning upon me and dragging me from out my hut in order to achieve it for my children, and I shall see naught of it, I would do it still. Good luck to them, I say. We are not beasts as should let the Unnamed turn us into such." "My Bronon would say the same," she insisted.

"The door's too small for all them to get in at once, anyway," she added wryly.

At this I startled into laughter and the tears that had come with her plea blinded me for a moment. She joined me, ducking her head against the blanket wrapped about her son.

"We'd just strike them on the head as soon as they stick their noses beyond the door," she said, giggling and making a chopping motion with her hand and then wiping at her eyes with the blanket. "The children can't come in more than one at a time as it is, and they not full grown."

"Mayhap I should get you a good ax, then."

"Mayhap," she allowed. "We are in need of one. I have bartered that away as well." This sets us to giggling and tears yet again.

"Aye, I shall add it to the list, then."

"Oh, aye," she sighed and snugged the bundled boy more closely to her.

"Well, until the hallmoot, when all is settled," I said, and wiped my eyes clear, "I will continue to visit, bench or no, information or no, and we shall see you through until your menfolk's return, and pray their foraging successful." I rose to my feet. "I think we can get you sleeping mats for the floor to replace those you have bartered away. Come to me ere you are tempted to trade those away, too, will you?"

She nodded, drying her eyes and sniffing.

"Mistress Tenera has need of help with her wash, could you take that in?"

"Aye, my lady, should she give me the soap and barrel to do it with. I've not that, either, anymore," she said, with a wry, wet laugh. "My eldest, Iessel and I could do it, with the help of the little ones."

"Good, then I will speak to her and recommend you." With a nod, then, I left the Mistress at her hearth. There she rose, clutching her son close to her breast, gave the pot a good stir, and spoke softly to her son.

"_My thanks to thee for thy aid this day_," I said to Edainion once we were set upon the path home. I smiled upon him and smoothed my hand through his curls as we walked. "You did well, _onya_."

Edainion's smile was a small thing that he hid in the turning of his face away, but his mother saw it and it made her smile all the more upon him.

For he had done well. After the midday meal, we had visited four houses upon the Angle where the need was greatest. He had either stayed and answered questions put to him with the solemnity that brought a light to the adults' eyes where they crowded about to greet him, or played with the infants out of doors and kept them engrossed in eating somewhat of what we had brought while his elders talked.

"Did you get aught to eat while I was inside?" I asked.

He shook his head and left off throwing and picking up a rock that had caught his interest. "They were very hungry."

_Ai!_ I think I had somewhat left of the dried venison, bland and unflavored though it was.

It seems my lord's son had too much of his father's quick mind. For he had too soon discerned that I filled his bowl with that which had been sacrificed from both mine and Halbarad's meals. I had paid for it with several days of sullen looks and the boy's insistence upon measuring the contents of our meals with an exacting nicety. In its stead, then, I took to secreting crackers, dried meats and nuts about my person and pressing them upon Edainion at such times as he gave the slightest appearance of hunger.

Halbarad, too, begged of my lord's men that they spend their journeys back to the Angle gathering what they could or hunting. This they had done willingly and reserved the best of what they found for their lord's son, bringing him berries and roots and other such gleanings under the guise of instructing him in their finding and preparation. They took great joy in it, looking upon their lord's son with a warm light in their eyes and fondness in their voices.

I stopped and, setting the basket upon the ground, bent to it. Ranger Saer, under the implied threat I would report my displeasure with him yet again to his captain, had carried it when full. He now hung back and paced the width of the path, making much of keeping watch. I had not asked it of him to carry it now that it weighed considerably less.

"You did not let them eat it all at once, did you?"

"No, _Ammë_, I did what you said."

"Good," I said. There! I had found it, wrapped in a bit of cloth, I hold out the last of the venison, small though the pieces were.

The venison is well-dried, for we had not salt for its curing and could not trust to the wet weather to keep the mold from it. It takes some chewing and occupied my lord's son for the next little as we walked. We come nigh to the fall fields. There, high upon the rise to our left, Master Herdir bent to check the grain growing there. He rubbed it briskly between his hands and squinted about. I thought him poorly satisfied, for he shook his head and wiped his hands against his breeches, scanning the furrows below where he stood. Water yet pooled between their narrow lines and the soil about was dark and damp. I doubt very much the barley and oats have had much chance to mature in all this wet. I can only hope they shall not rot in the fields ere we have the chance to harvest them.

"What will you do if Master Bronon is dead and they do not come back?" Edainion asked, squinting up at me against the sun.

"What I can," I said and shook my head. For it would sure to be little comfort against what privation and grief they would suffer should such a thing come to pass. "Ensure she has work and place. She has some distant kin here, though they are as bad off as she. She could be placed under the shelter of their oath, should they take her. Her kin are dependent upon Elder Fuller, and he sees to those under his oath as best he is able. And then hope no further misfortune befalls them."

I was unsure what sense he made of it, but my lord's son returned to gnawing upon the largest of the pieces of venison without any further questions on the matter.

"But we shall pray for Master Bronon and Master Stevan's health, aye?" I asked and nudged at his shoulder for a response. "And for the safe return of those of our folk who have been brave enough go beyond the two rivers aforaging."

"Aye, _Ammë_," he responded dutifully, sparing a glance for me.

Master Herdir has returned to his cart with his piebald mare. There he took up the reins and, as is his wont, clicked to her rather than giving her a slap with the reins. Well-practiced as they are in it, it took not much to set her to a steady walk and him to leaning with the swinging of his cart o'er the uneven turf. I shall have to ask him for his report on the wheat and hope it is better than what I could see of the oat and barley.

"May I have my men back and play in the woods with my friends, now?"

"Ah-ho!" said I and turned my full attention upon him to find my lord's son gazing at me earnestly. "And is this why you have been so biddable today?"

He may have presented a face devoid of all but the most innocent of looks, but he did not fool me, my lord's son. For he no doubt tired of his punishment, deserved though it was.

"You said should I be good and did as you bid, I could have them back."

"Aye and earned back my trust twofold for every lie you told. You would have at the least another full day of it ere that happens."

It takes not much to discern Edainion's thoughts on the matter, for he stopped with his chewing and gave me a look though the sides of his eyes that was easily read.

Glancing quickly behind me, I lowered my voice. "You cannot give Ranger Saer the slip, _onya_. We could not find you and knew not where you were until well after the even's meal. 'Tis too much of a danger."

It did little, for my lord's son did naught but cut his eyes at me. I doubt not he tires of Ranger Saer's company as much as his mother does, but, until another can replace the man, 'tis our burden to bear.

"Ah! I will speak of it no more. You know what I would say as well as I, I have said it so oft."

"Aye, _Ammë," _he said and sighed as had I little wit to discern the unfairness of what I had visited upon him.

"'Do not go beyond the pasture wall,'" he said, mocking a lecturing tone as best as his young voice was able. "'Do not go into the Angle without Ranger Saer. Do not hide in Mistress Pelara's barn. Do not shoot tipped arrows unless you are with Ranger Saer or Halbarad. Go not into the paddock with your father's warhorse else you be trampled. It takes but one fall from the drystone wall and you will regret the pain for the rest of your living days.'"

_Ai!_ The child has far too much of his father in him. I shook my head and must bite at my lip to forebear from laughing.

"Aye," I said, "and do not forget '_Go not into the pigsty, for thou art made of honey and plums and all things sweet, and art very tasty to them._'"

"_Ammë!" _he cried, laughing._ "Never didst thou say that."_

"_Verily, but, truly," _said I,_ "go not into the pigsty." _Ah, Valar know what ideas I have just given the child, but he snorted and cast about for another rock now he has done with eating.

"_I have no wish to muck about with the pigs, Ammë."_

"_And lest thou forgetest, 'Do not strike thy sister with a blade be it blunt or no.'"_

"I did not do it apurpose!" he cried, though he was quick to drop his gaze from mine.

"I am aware. _And yet still she bears thy mark_," I said and pointed out a stone at the side of the path. Smooth and rounded it was, and of a good size for his hand. It had the added benefit of lying in the grass upon the verge where he would not need to dig it out from the mud of the path. I would have enough work cleaning his breeches and boots from the look of it.

"You should be more thoughtful of what is around you whether training or in play. You will need that skill as much as the others. I can think of at least two conflicts betwixt our folk that could have been avoided had the men involved a better mind to what they did."

He sighed and bent to the stone, no doubt tired of my lecturing.

"_I know thou art weary of them, onya. But 'tis our charge to keep thee safe._ _And until I trust thee will abide by the rules we set thee_ –"

I know not what else I had in mind to say or what my son may have replied, for upon rising, he halted and stared at the path behind us. Ranger Saer drew his blade and stood upon the path between us.

'Twas only now I heard it, the rush of a horse's hooves coming upon us. Dull they rumbled upon the damp earth toward us. Clinging tightly to his mount's neck, 'twas a youth under Ranger Haldren's care. Even now, I could see the grey sheen of fatigue on the youth's face and the laboring of his horse's breath. He has been careful not to overtax the beast, but, still 'tis clear they are both at their limit.

"No!" cried my lord's son once we sent the youth on with his message for Mistress Nesta. Edainion pulled on my arm. "I am not an infant to be sent home!"

"_Ai!_ _Onya!_" I cried and attempted to wrest my arm from his grip. "I have not the time to wrestle with you over this."

"But I can help!" he cried and clung the tighter.

'Young master," said Ranger Saer, _"thou shouldst listen to thy lady mother."_

He had come near and reached a hand to take my son by his wrist.

"_Thou touchest my son and I shall have thee whipped and cast from our lord's service!" _

Mayhap I was too harsh, but I have little time and Ranger Saer little inclination to give much weight to my commands. His hand snapped away and his face fell into sullen lines I have seen too oft afore.

"_I shall tell thee when I have need of thee," _I said, and he nodded tersely and stepped back.

Taking a deep breath, I knelt afore my lord's son. If naught else, I have shocked the child into releasing his hold upon me and now have the chance to speak more calmly to him.

"I am going, too," Edainion said. "I know all the herbs, now, and their uses. I can make poultices and bandages on my own. Mistress Nesta e'en said so."

"_Onya_, listen to me." I laid my hands upon his arms and he fell silent at my touch. "It does you credit, you wanting to help, _onya_. Had you a few more years, there would be no question to it, and I would be proud to allow it. But, my child, there will be much of blood and broken men, and death, and screaming for the pain of it."

At this, his eyes started with tears and he plucked at the cloth of my sleeves. "But is that not why I should help? Are they not _attarinya's_ men? You say we owe them a debt that must be paid, no matter the cost. They will be my men one day. They are hurt. I want to help."

_Ai!_ My lord's son knows my weaknesses and uses them well. For, aye, in truth, I would wish him to hold the fate of his father's men close in his thoughts, though it had begun to weigh heavily upon the child with so little he could give to their aid. And so little had the folk of the Dúnedain to buttress their hearts, 'twas all the harder to say nay to such a plea.

Mayhap 'twas not too late, though my heart clenched at the thought. Should I beg it of Halbarad, he could send to the Hidden Vale and determine the state of its lords' temper, and my son need not learn just what costs his father's men pay for their loyalty.

"Aye, very well," I said.

"Truly?" His face brightened of a sudden, though he searched my face.

"Aye, but," said I, and here I took my child by his arms and gave him a strong shake. "_Hearken to me!_" I demanded and he sobered. _"Thou shalt stay in the Mistress' workshop. Thou mayest prepare what is needful there and naught else. No errands. No slipping into the surgery where wounds shall be treated. I care not what you hear. I care not what any elder may tell thee to do, even should it be Mistress Nesta herself. Thou shalt obey only my wishes in this. And should I say to thee 'go!,' go thou must, without protest or lagging behind."_

He nodded swiftly, I think just grateful to be allowed the chance. "Aye_, Ammë."_

"_And above all else, onya, do not step even one foot into the sickhouse!_ Do you understand?"

"Aye," he said, smiling.

"Do not make light of this, Edainion. You must swear it! An you are foresworn I shall not trust your word until you have earned it back thricefold. Should you have thought your penance burdensome afore, I shall hold you to it until you are sick with weariness from it."

"Aye, _Amminya_. I swear it."

"Very well," I said, rising to my feet. "Mistress Nesta shall need honey, for we had the last of it with our tea, do you remember?"

He nodded.

"Know you where you can beg some?"

He nodded again, his face lighting with purpose. "Aye, _Ammë. _Lothel's father has some. He let me have a little when I was with Elesinda."

"Then take Ranger Saer with you and bring it to the Mistress' workshop, aye? Should he not have enough, then go first to those houses of your father's men to beg more."

"Ranger Saer?" I called and stepped away from my lord's son with a firm look that kept him in place.

"My lady, the captain says I am to stay with you. He says –"

"You will do as I bid," I said, my voice low. "It seems it has not occurred to you, but my word supersedes that of Ranger Halbarad, be he kinsman of our lord or no. You will obey it."

The Ranger nodded, dropping his eyes and raising his fingers to his brow in formal salute.

"And listen closely to me in this," I said, moving nearer still until I could stare directly into his downcast eyes and nigh feel his breath upon me. "You will not put a hand on my son unless it is to save him from grievous harm. Should you have complaint of him, you are to come to me. Else I shall take the whip to you, myself."

"Aye, my lady," he said, and I did not wait to see had he more to say.

~oOo~


	48. Chapter 47

AN: field medicine/surgery, fairly graphic depictions of the wounds of war and their treatment.

~ Chapter 47 ~

"_And Aragorn arose and went out, and he sent for the sons of Elrond, and together they laboured far into the night. And word went through the City: 'The King is come again indeed.' "And they named him Elfstone, because of the green stone that he wore, and so the name which it was foretold at his birth that he should bear was chosen for him by his own people._

_And when he could labour no more, he cast his cloak about him, and slipped out of the City, and went to his tent just ere dawn and slept for a little."_

ROTK: The Houses of Healing

~oOo~

_~ TA 3017, __7th day of Yavannië__: The Angle's Council to meet upon the morrow. Mistress Nesta recommends implementing policies across all halls of the Angle's folk and upon its square. Should any show signs of cough and fever they shall be put to a room of themselves. Any who have been near them in the past two days must also shelter in place. They may not gather with any others who have not already survived the coughing plague. Any of the house who do not show signs of the sickness are to keep their distance, no more than a room's length between them, and may not share bed, clothes, cup, ewer, chamber pot, tub or bowl for bathing, or any other such implement of care. Those who have not the means to have a room to themselves may be taken to the sickhouses. Mistress Nesta to present her case for these policies afore the Elders upon the morrow and beg them to consider by what means the market may be made secure and not be a source for all to be made ill. _

~oOo~

"Light, you there!" Mistress Nesta called, snapping her fingers, and a young boy of light hair and freckled face looked up from where he was beating a stake into the ground with a large rock. "They can do that, Horthon. Get us all the lamps ye can find and make sure they are filled, aye?"

"Aye, Mistress!" he called and darted away.

When there was none who stepped in to take his place, I picked up the rock he had dropped, loosened the stake from the soil, and pulled it tighter against its guide. The rope thrummed with my beating the stake taut to the ground.

In the dimming light of the coming even, we raised tents upon the mistress' toft. Most oft in use in the days of the harvest fest when the feast and folk required shade, I pressed them to the healer's service. Sure it was to rain o'er the night. Her sickhouse was full and 'twould do no good to expose the injured to an illness that was just as like to take their life should they survive their wounds.

"Lift it higher, now!" I heard. "Get that tied down."

"Get a hand on it, now."

"Aye, I've got it," I heard and the cloth billowed with the breeze as the folk raised it high.

Mistress Nesta's hands were deep in a basket of strips of linen and wadding where she bent over them. "Master Duin?"

"Aye, Mistress?" A tall man of light blue eyes, tan skin, and hair of grey steel he kept tied at the nape of his neck halted in his path from sickhouse to toft. He carried a bundle beneath his arm and a bucket of sharply smelling vinegar.

"Have you got your knives sharpened?"

"Aye, but I will need a hand or two when it comes time, and I have naught of honey."

"You will have it. Take the tallest of the tents for your use. You can set a table in there," she said, nodding to the far edge of the toft where now stands a tent my lord had used for his men in years past for their rest and changing of their gear upon the harvest fest.

"Here, take this basket, then," she went on, and, rising, hung it from his arm. "Ye will be needing all of these and Lenniel can prepare more."

"The water is a-boil, Mistress," called a young lass of naught more than twelve years across the toft.

"Has Master Edainion come with the honey, Lenniel?"

"Not yet, Mistress."

"Aye, aye," said Nesta, wiping her hands against the apron across her thighs. "Well, we shall need it last of other things. Let me know when he arrives and keep the irons in the fire. Have ye found the arrow spoons?"

"I have not had the chance to look yet."

"Find them first, and then prepare more linens, aye?"

"Aye, Mistress!"

And then it is done.

The cloth of the tents rippled in the rising breeze with the sun's setting. The lamps were lit and from them streamed bright flame in the gathering dusk. Soon the tents shall glow with the light of them from within as all about us darkens. There beyond the entrance of one, Master Duin touched upon his knives and tools, testing an edge here and arranging all to his liking there. Clean water and vinegar and baskets of torn linen stood at each tent's opening. A young boy whose name I could not recall sat upon the grass in the midst of others of Nesta's folk. There they rested a little and took what meal they could, for soon their hands will be busy and they knew not when next they might take a little sustenance.

The mistress herself stood at the head of the path that spills upon the sickhouse's toft, her hands wrung deep in her apron. I had sent word and begged all our folk with their wagons and carts go ahead to meet them. All was ready. There was naught to do but wait.

"Would you assist Master Duin, my lady?" Nesta said when I drew near. "His eyes aren't what they once were."

"I shall," said I and hoped I was up to the task. For the man is the Angle's barber surgeon and most called upon when there is naught to do but cut away what will not heal. "Have you all you need?"

She nodded, her eyes upon the rise where the path dips below sight. "As best as we are able, my lady."

They shall come from the north and so we stood upon the path and waited.

~oOo~

I could hear naught but the screams and moaning of men. For, not far from where I was knelt, the mistress' folk forced knife and metal into a man's shoulder. I knew not who it was, but he cried out and they were hard pressed to hold him still. For the arrow he had taken was barbed and there was naught for it but to press it between leaves of metal forced in about it and ease its passage out. Hands slip in the blood and, for want of other means of exerting greater force, Master Duin knelt upon the Ranger's shoulder and pulled mightily upon arrow shaft and metal.

"My lady," said Melethron, his voice hoarse and scarce to be heard.

I had plunged a bit of wool wadding to a bucket and, squeezing it out, offered a trickle from it to the Ranger's lips. They had laid him and the bier that carried him upon the toft and the lamp above us flickered in the fickle breeze. I had not seen the man so poorly afore. For his face was all but grey and his eyes clouded with pain and fever. The skin of his lips was rough and torn. He licked the water from off his lips. I dared not give him too much, for a foul odor arose from his belly. I wondered could he die of the shock of it ere long should I do more. Nesta had taken one look at what was to be found beneath the bandages make-shifted from cloak and blanket. After laying the bloody mass back to his belly she grabbed Ranger Haldren and yanked him to his feet and away from where we knelt at Melethron's side.

"Bless you, my lady," Melethron said, closing his eyes.

Young Horthon's feet crashed through the grass above the Ranger's head. A sharp scream rang out and then was as swiftly stilled. Mistress Nesta and Haldren were deep in argument not more than a few feet away. I knew not what they said, but she was angry and gestured widely and Haldren looked upon her as were he made of stone, his arms folded across his breast and his feet planted firmly. And yet Melethron seemed untroubled by the sound and activity about us. I wondered were he even aware of it, so great was the pain he suffered. Though Nesta had gentled her touch as much as she could, her examination of him had left him gasping and clutching at the edge of the bier on which he laid.

He clutched at my hand and I looked down to find his eyes open, considering me.

"They are arguing about me?"

"Aye."

He nodded, gasping a moment for breath ere he spoke again. "Aye well, mayhap I should have let Haldren slit my throat when he offered. He would have made a clean end of it."

I must have looked upon him with alarm, for he made a quick soothing sound.

"Nay, my lady. You did not know Ranger Naron, did you?"

"No, I did not." I had heard of him from my father and seen him from a distance, but we had ne'er met.

"'Twas when we brought your father home to you. Took a blade to the belly, he did. Cut him just here above his kidney, it did." He let go of his grip on me and his hand shook as it hovered over the bandages where he pointed. His hand was filthy with his own blood and I knew not what else.

"We brought him back to the Angle as he asked. He lingered nigh three days until the last. 'Twas an ugly death I would not wish on a dog."

At this, I took his hand and pressed it in my own.

Whatever their disagreement, it seemed now resolved. Ranger Haldren strode swiftly past us, taking the path to the mistress' workshop.

"Do you wish more water?"

He nodded, wincing at the strain.

"He has gone for the hemlock," he said when he had again wet his lips.

_Ai! _It was no surprise but still, the thought of it stung and I must blink to clear my eyes of tears. 'Twas difficult to think of my lord's councils with his men and not hear Melethron's voice raised in story or complaint or jest.

"Will you sit with me, my lady?" he asked and, for a brief moment, I saw fear flicker deep within his eyes. "Until my Berel arrives?"

"Aye, Melethron, I shall," said I. _"Thou art my lord's man. Thee and thy kin are never far from his thoughts_. Do not concern yourself with what is to be. We shall see your kin well cared for."

This seemed to give him comfort, for he closed his eyes again. He breathed shallowly but with great care. I knew not how he had survived the trip hither, by what force of will he had borne the pain it must have cost him to do so, should it only grant him a few moments to say his farewells to those he holds dear.

I knew not what other comfort I could give, but laved water upon his cheeks and neck to cool him, and wiped away sweat from where it slipped from his brow. Atimes, I trickled water upon his lips so he might soothe the dryness and sour taste of his mouth, and marveled at the man's silence here at the end.

When four of my lord's men each lifted a corner of Ranger Melethron's bier and bore him across the Mistress' toft, his wife, her kin, and their elder children arrived swiftly upon them setting him down within his own tent. There I left them gathered around him. They touched upon him and he spoke to them softly, and they tried not to weep.

"My lady!" came Mistress Nesta's call ere I could even think to follow them, and, handing me a cup yet warm from its brewing, she gave me instruction and begged me elsewhere.

I could hear them e'en ere I lifted the flap to the tall tent. For 'twas the voices of young men that caught upon my ear.

"_Ai! Leave me be, the Bitch Mother will take his hand to me soon enough_."

"'What is this? _How art thou still in thy bed?'_" said a voice I well recalled. "'Are you not a Ranger of the North? Think you having naught but one foot enough cause for your shirking of your duties?'"

"_Aye!_" cried another and laughed ere he groaned. "'Get ye up, now! I've not marched from here to the South Downs and back with two broken legs and naught but a crutch to keep me upright to coddle your wretched ass.'"

It could be none other than Ranger Haldren they mocked. For the tale is a true one, though mayhap he had not traveled so far as claimed, nor had so many legs injured.

They fell silent hard upon my entrance, their look a little stunned ere Ranger Boradan straightened and touched his fingers to his brow.

"My lady," he said.

The young man upon the table by which he stood was broader of frame, but so like him in form and so like their father with his ruddy-brown skin, it could be naught but near kin to him. He struggled to sit upright and give respect.

_Ai!_ I came swift to his side and touched upon his arm. "Nay, be easy."

Boradan had rolled his blanket into a bolster and set it beneath his brother's head. There we eased him back to laying upon it. He gritted his teeth and stifled a groan as he came to rest. Breathing heavily, his eyes pinpricks of pain, his skin glowed with a sheen of sweat in the lamplight. For all their laughter afore, Boradan's face tightened at the sight of it and his hands eager to relieve his brother's distress.

"You must be Muindir," I said, taking up the cup I had set upon the table on which Master Duin's knives lay. "Your brother has much to tell of you."

"All lies, my lady," he said thinly. "_I beg thee, _do not believe a single word of it_._"

"Aye, mayhap not all good things," I said, to which Boradan's face lit with a grin ere he returned his gaze upon his brother. "But enough to know you now I have chanced upon you."

"I am not at my best at the moment, my lady. Are you certain 'twas not of himself he spoke?" Muindir asked, squinting at me from where he lay.

I could not help but laugh. For Boradan had captured his elder's character so well in his stories of him, I could not have mistaken him.

"Well, then," I said. "You must allow me to become better acquainted with you, then."

"I am afraid, my lady, the next we meet you will find me a little less the man you see today."

"A very little less in body, but no less in spirit, I hope," I said, turning away to take up the cup I had set on Master Duin's table. "Have you prepared yourself?"

"Aye, my lady, I am ready," Muindir said and Boradan and I lifted him to sitting. He cried out when we jarred his leg, hissing and breathing deep to still the pain of it.

"This will help," I said, and he nodded from where he leaned heavily against his brother. "Though, do not take what you shall come to see and feel for it to heart. They are but dreams."

His hand shook when he would take the cup I offered and so Boradan took it up and lifted it to his brother's lips. There, with their hands together steadying the cup, Muindir drank deeply of its contents. 'Tis not the best of tastes. I recall it well, though I had not drunk of it since my daughter's birth. In but a moment, his wit will not be as sharp and, I hope, he, like I, will recall little of what is to come.

I have taken the cup and Boradan his brother's hand. There they watched as I removed strips of cloth binding thin branches of beech and the remains of his blanket about his leg. I had no hope of untying the knots laid upon them and so took up one of Master Duin's knives and cut them away. His foot and ankle were little more than a mangled mass of blood and bone.

"_Ai!" _Muindir moaned and his eyes rolled at the sight. "_Help me, Boradan! They mean to cut my foot from me." _

Boradan shifted his grip upon him the better to hold him upright. "_Aye, brother, but thou shalt live. And I shall still have thee, and our mother and father will keep their son still."_

He went on when Muindir groaned and shook his head sharply, attempting, I think, to clear it. _"Come, vuindor! The High Days are soon to come and we shall steal Adar's ale and sing the songs of the North! Who then shalt beat thy chest and proclaim thee the champion of the Hare and Hounds but thee, eh? Thou canst not leave me to tease Fornion on my own. He is difficult to humble as it is."_

This set Muindir to chuckling, though his head lolled upon his brother's shoulder.

"_And we shall see our sister marry her betrothed soon after."_

"_Aye, but I will not dance at her wedding,"_ Muindir said, his speech slurred until I could scarce make out what he said.

"_That is good, for she does not wish it. The last thou attempted it, she limped about the house for two days after and cursed thee."_

Muindir chuckled. _ "Do not tell her I did it apurpose, wilt thou?" "Ai!" _he cried and squeezed his eyes shut as I cleared away cloth and crushed _athelas_ and other herbs.

Swift footsteps came upon us from outside the tent and the flap covering the entrance was flung aside to reveal a man of the wandering clans. He still wore his hair in long, locked twists held back from his face that I recalled from the hallmoot long ago. But now he wore a short beard of black and silver upon his dark jaw. Tall and broad of shoulder as he was, he filled the entrance to the tent as he rose. His gaze flew to the bloody mass of his son's foot, to me, and then to his son's faces. At the sight of them somewhat about him gentled. They looked upon him as had he the power to set all that was amiss aright. I would have thought he would have demanded to know the cause of Muindir's injury and what we intended, but, instead, he brushed past Boradan and took his place behind his eldest son.

"_Find thy mother,"_ was all he said as he drew Muindir against him and Boradan nodded. He said naught but strode swiftly from the tent, nodding and raising his knuckles to me in a swift salute as he left.

Muindir slurred, "_Ada?"_ and the man cupped his son's head in his hand and drew it against his breast as were he a young boy.

"_Aye, I am here._"

"_The Butcher of Umbar is come for me_," whispered Muindir.

"_Nay, ioneg, he is not. I would not allow it."_

"He has drunk mandrake and will remember little of this," I said to the man's dismayed look, for his eyes glinted in the lamplight. "Take heart, Master Orthoron. I, myself, have born the bite of a healer's knife and lived to good health after."

Mayhap he would have said somewhat in reply, but the thud of bucket dropped to the ground warned us of another's approach.

"Ah, good, you are here, Master!" said Master Duin. He gave Master Orthoron and I a quick nod and dropped a bundle of linens to the basket at the foot of the table.

He set the small pot of sweet-smelling honey dangling from his fingers upon the table by his knives. He nodded to the table upon which lay Ranger Muindir. "Just throw that mess upon the ground, should it please you, my lady."

"Let us see what we have here, aye?" He rubbed his hands briskly together and peered at Muindir's leg as I cleared away the bloody cloth and splints in which it had been bound. "Aye, we'll have it off in a trice."

At a touch to the crook of my arm, Master Duin coaxed me to his table of knives, turning our backs and leaving Master Orthoron staring after us.

"I could use your help, my lady," said Master Duin in a low voice. "We shall need to tie off the flow of blood from vessels we cut, and the faster done the better. Once we have started, we have but a moment or two to get the work done, else we might lose him to the shock of it. You understand me, my lady?

"Aye, Master Duin," I said. "What would you have me do?"

"Once I have cut the skin, you will need to pull it back and hold it fast, so I might cut first the muscle then saw the bone. It will be greasy with blood, but ye must not let it slip, nor impede my use of the blade, nor stand in my light. Can you do that for me, my lady? I know you've seen much of butchery, what with ye raising your sheep and all. But this is a man, and he will be screaming for the pain of it. You and I cannot falter for our sympathies for him and his state."

He awaited my nod and then continued, hovering a hand above his tools.

"You see that fine hook there? I have tied the gut, but you should check it. Ye must find the main vessels and loop them closed ere we release the binding, else he will bleed himself dry." He picked the tool up by its wooden end and dug at the air with it.

The gut was finely pulled and his knots, despite his fears, well made and looked to hold. I pulled at the end of one to get the feel for it and it slid through the knot with a little effort.

"Reach in and hook the vessel, both top and bottom, and slide the loop down its length over it ere you pull it tight."

Master Duin waggled the tool at me to gain my attention. "We have got the one chance to get them all. We will be looking for three of them; one to the front, the side, and the back," he said, touching three points about the wooden haft with his thick fingers. "Have you got it, my lady?

"Aye, I understand, Master Duin. I know what to look for." I had thought I had held my fears to myself, but I doubt not my eyes were wide, for I was unable to turn my gaze from the long, curved knife laying with the rest of his gear. His hand alighted upon my arm ere it was as quickly withdrawn, and I glanced up to find his kind look upon me.

"Ne'er fear, my lady," he said. "I will guide you through it. You have but to do what I tell ye. We will have him cut and bandaged up quicker than that young Horthon out there can swallow down a bowl of porridge, and I swear him half wolf-cub."

"All right there, young Master Muindir," he said, turning to the table where Master Orthoron had been speaking low but urgently to his son. Duin grabbed up a strap of tough cloth, which he then handed to me. "The worst of it is the cutting of your skin, but you must do your best to hold still. Ye hear me?" He grabbed up the cloth of the Ranger's breeches below the knee and stuck the point of his knife through the fabric and began to cut away the ragged bottom. "My lady, the strap, if it please ye," he said when done.

At this, Muindir's father moved swiftly ere Master Duin had the chance to take it from my hand, grabbing upon the barber's arm and pulling him close.

"Master Orthoron!" I said, reaching across the table and lifting my hand to him, but he was the faster.

"He is my son," said Master Orthoron, his voice low and stern. "Not some piece of meat that you would speak of him so." It seemed then, that words failed him, for though he glared at Master Duin, he said naught else.

"Aye," Master Duin said, returning his gaze as steadily. "There is naught for it but to proceed."

"Master Orthoron!" I said, though the man spared little attention for me and did not release the barber. "_I beg thee, sir. _ '_Tis not the first Master Duin has seen him. Thy son has had his questions answered, and would have told thee had he not already drunk mandrake. He has reconciled himself to it._"

"You swear it?" said Master Orthoron and Duin nodded solemnly.

"Aye, I swear it. I will do my best by him, but I need your aid."

Master Orthoron swallowed and looked the grimmer. "What am I to do?"

"Stand behind your son there and hold him fast about his arms. Keep him as still as you are able. The lady and I will be working as quick as we can, but do not be surprised if he swoons in the midst of it. Ye must be prepared to bear him up. Do not let him fall!"

With that, Master Orthoron nodded and released Master Duin and gentled Muindir into position against his breast.

Master Duin wound the strap about Muindir's leg and then inserted a metal rod within its loop.

"Are ye ready, my lad?"

Muindir groaned and bit at his lip, too far gone to do much more than nod, and his father, his face resolute, took a good grip upon his son.

"There's a good lad," Master Duin said. "Sooner started, sooner done, and then, ne'er fear, Master Orthoron, we shall get your son to healing."

Master Duin swiftly twisted the rod to tighten the strap and then secured it. "Now, my lady, hold his leg straight and fast." And with that, he reached about Muindir's leg with his curved knife, and, in one smooth, sure motion, slit the skin so that it split in a sudden red line about it.

I will not speak of Muindir's screams, nor his aborted frantic movements upon the table. Nor does the feel of a man's skin and sinew and freshly sawn bones beneath my fingers bear the telling of it. But, should I recall the events of that night, e'er shall come to mind the flickering of the lamps and my desperation to find what needed tying off in their dim light. And o'er all, I recall the low sound of Muindir's father's voice. E'er he spoke low and steadily in his son's ear.

"_It will be done in just a little,__ ioneg__. It will soon be over. I am here. It will soon be done_," he said o'er and o'er again in a soothing cant even after Muindir fell silent within his father's grip.

Soft was the light that spills upon Mistress Nesta's toft. O'erhead the moon sailed above clouds that crowd upon the horizon where she painted their edges with silver light. 'Tis quiet now, but for the low moans of folk, the soft speech of their kin gathered to them, and the voice of a child raised in complaint. It is long past my lord's son's time to be abed and, my labors done for the moment, I must send him to it.

_Ai!_ I think it gave my lord's son a fright, for when I first came upon him, Edainion dropped the pestle he held to the table where it rolled and clanked upon the floor unheeded and a horror stole upon his face.

"_Ammë?_" he called, his voice low, and 'twas only then was I aware of myself. Blood stiffened my apron and dress from sleeves to breast to thighs. It had sunk deep to the crevices of my hands and beds of my nails, where it would not wash out in the bowl my lord's son offered when I had begged his forgiveness and consoled him. He then gave no protest when I commanded him home. He awaited there where the sickhouse throws its shadow upon the path, rifling through the basket Elesinda sent. He had shared its contents with Lenniel for their even's meal, and now searched for somewhat else to eat therein, ere he was to go.

Low came their voices and their shadows played upon the cloth of the tent, thrown there by the flicker of the lamp that hung within. And as I neared soft their words came to me.

_Our mothers sat upon the banks of the Echuinen  
And watered deep flowing rivers with tears  
Our fathers stood guard and gave us farewell  
And as the flowers that wait for the rain  
We lay quiet beneath the hunter's feet  
Yet spring to awake at the call  
Of songs ringing o'er red highlands  
Of broad waters that open upon the sea_

_Our hands are the hands of the forsaken  
Our eyes are the eyes of the dead  
Our tears are the tears of our mothers'  
Yet as the flowers that wait for the rain  
We grow roots as strong as the mountain  
And spring to awake at the call  
Of the thunder of hooves on the hillsides  
And clashing of spears in the valleys_

_We are the children of lamentation  
We are the children of stars  
That shine upon lands of our forebears  
Yet as the flowers that wait for the rain  
We tend the seeds of those who bore us  
So they shall spring to awake at the call  
Of our fathers whose trails we have followed  
And our mothers whose hearths call us home_

Loath was I to speak. The words are known to me. I have seen them written in my own mother's hand in the pages of the journal passed to me after my sister's death. There among the tales of her dye pots and weaving were words of our foremothers I had not heard but in my own voice. For a moment, I could do naught but listen and hoped I would not burst into tears at the fullness of my heart. For here, they were put to song.

"Ranger Boradan" I called when the singing faded, and the voices within stilled.

'Twas but a moment and he pushed aside the flap and emerged. It seems, of a sudden, I had forgotten how tall he was.

At my silence, he frowned upon me in obvious concern. "What is it, my lady?"

"I have a favor to beg of you," I said. "Would you escort my lord's son home?"

His face cleared. "Aye, my lady, of course."

All about was quiet and so I could do naught but hear them whispering inside amidst the chime of buckle and slip of leather.

"_But thou art so weary. Surely another could take him."_

"_Naneth, he is my lord's son and heir and I am their sworn man. 'Tis proper I see him home safe."_

"_He is but a child. What is he doing here?" _came his father's deeper voice.

"_He has been helping Lenniel in the healer's workshop. I will not be long."_

The flap of the tent flew open and afore me stood a woman of the wanderers, her hair a chestnut crown of tight curls lit with threads of silver between brow and scarf and freckles upon her nose and cheeks the color of a young fawn.

"I am sorry to take him from you at such at time. I would not, had I another to ask," I said as her look assessed me keenly.

"_My son speaks fondly of thee, my lady_," she said.

"Mistress Istriel," I said and inclined my head to her, for I had heard much of her, as well.

She had no chance to respond, for Boradan pressed behind her and left the cloth of the tent bobbing in his passage.

With a quick kiss to her high cheek, Boradan smiled upon his mother and took his farewell, "_I will be back soon, Naneth. Try not to provoke discord with the House of Isildur while I am gone."_

"_My lady," _he said and nodded, bringing his fingers to his forehead and smiling as he went.

Her gaze following him was all of fond, vexed, and worried, and I felt the pang of guilt at separating them when she had just received him back from danger.

"_My thanks to thee for permitting his absence. I pray it will be for just a little."_

"_I am afraid my son has grown past the need for my approval of his deeds, my lady," _she allowed, if a trifle wryly.

"_Mayhap, but it seems not like him to e'er grow beyond the need for his mother's regard, I would think. __He is very dear to my lord's son and I." _ For indeed did I regret the lack of Boradan's warmth and steady presence, and Edainion his companion and tutor. "_Has Elder Bachor seen to thy needs, mistress, so that thou mayest meet the needs of those of thy clan?"_

"_There shall always be need of more, my lady, but he treats fairly with us."_

"_As my lord is not __here to tend to thy sons' needs, it is on me to attempt it. Shouldst thou have need, thou hast but to send to me._"

I bowed and was to take my leave, but turned to find Boradan returning with Edainion at his side. The Ranger leaned to my lord's son and spoke softly to him.

"Let me do the asking, then," I heard.

"Forgive me, my lady," Boradan said, bowing his head touching upon his brow as they approached. "But your son begged to meet my brother ere he goes."

"_For a little."_" I said holding out my hand, for they were an exact pair, the two of them, their eyes wide and innocent and pleading.

I had thought, mayhap, Edainion's face would brighten as it had when I had relented earlier in the day, but it did not. In its stead, he looked up at Boradan with a somberness that reminded me much of his father's grim look. At the Ranger's nod, my lord's son took my hand and Mistress Istriel held the tent's flap open for us.

There, Master Orthoron rose from his seat and bowed, his dark brown eyes warming as he watched. For Edainion lingered uncertainly by my side at first. They had made him comfortable, their eldest son, wrapped in blankets and laid upon a mattress around which they sat. There he blinked and frowned upon us.

'Twas not until Muindir squinted and mumbled, "I thought you were taller, my lord," did Edainion's face light with a smile and he stepped away from my side.

It might have earned him the fond shaking of his father's head, but Edainion settled himself beside the mattress beside Muindir and there looked upon him curiously. For the Ranger was still befuddled, the lids of his eyes unwieldy and voice soft and slow.

"Do I really look much like him?" asked Edainion, biting upon his lip.

But it seemed Muindir had exhausted his wit, for, blinking heavily, he did naught but reach a trembling hand to take a lock of one of Edainion's curls between his fingers. There he frowned and looked upon it with somewhat of wonder, tugging upon it ere he released it.

"Aye, that you do, young master." Master Orthoron had returned to sitting and, watching, leaned his chin upon his fist. But now he sat straighter and spoke. "'Tis in the set of your chin and the sharpness of your cheeks. But, you should know too, you have your mother's eyes and they are that color and shape most oft seen in the folk of her clan of the _Mawrím_. Their forefathers came to Umbar from the western shores of Harad, long ago, and still their children bear the look."

I was unsure what Edainion made of it, but he looked upon Master Orthoron solemnly. "_Wilt thou tell me more stories of them?_"

Master Orthoron's face warmed with a smile, his eyes soft and pleased. "_I would, young master, should not my wife be the better teller of tales than I, or so my children oft remind me._"

A rude noise from Muindir drew their gaze. But his thoughts on the matter were most like to have to wait, for he struggled to turn to his back, and he fell to dozing even as Master Orthoron rose and eased pillow and blanket about him.

"Come, _onya_," I said. "We should let him rest."

In all this, Mistress Istriel had remained silent, standing at my back and watching. I know not why, but when we took our leave, for all her husband's fondness and pleased smiles, it came to me that she had wept, her tears shining softly upon her cheeks.

And when we withdrew from the tent and the small circle of light and warmth within it, we made our way across the toft, Ranger Boradan trailing behind us, and I, for the aching of my heart, struggled to smile upon my son.

~oOo~

Some time later, at the far side of the sickhouse, I leaned against the wall and used it as prop to let myself down to the ground beside Mistress Nesta where she sat in the shadows. Soon, my eyes would accustom themselves to the dark, but now, I could see little of what she might be thinking. Without comment, I pulled my shoes from my feet so I might feel the cool grass beneath them. The wall of limewashed daub at our backs yet bore the day's heat and its warmth stole through wool and linen. There we sat for a time and said naught, and I let the warmth ease sinews strung tight for holding myself in readiness.

The moon had risen and looked down upon us with her broad face. Dark the leaves danced o'er our heads, flickering silver in her light, the breeze driven upon us by clouds upon the western hills and smelling of rain. I would have said the night a peaceful one, were it not for the moaning and mutters of the folk within. Somewhere, beyond the wall at our back, a child pled for her mother, coughing so in between her cries my own breast ached in sympathetic pain. I know not whether I hoped her mother was soon to come and give her relief, or should I hope she was far from this place where her child saw her face yet knew her not.

"She is dying, my lady," Nesta said and 'twas only then I knew she, too, was listening.

Her hand was warm and strong when I took it in one of my own.

"I am sorry you must bear this, Nesta," I said, and her hand clutched at mine in response.

After some time of wiping at her cheeks, she spoke, her voice low and colored by her tears. "I have not asked, my lady," she said. "I know it is not my place to be told these things, but were you to tell me there is a purpose to this, then I think I might be able to bear it a little longer."

"My lord –"

She squeezed my hand to halt what I had thought to say and turned so she could look upon me more fully. "Forgive me, my lady. I do not know him," she said, her eyes glinting in the pale light. "I know you."

At that, I fell silent. Faint I saw her face turned to me pale against the dark. For the grief and resignation etched there, I wished not to give false hope. We have had enough of that, we Dúnedain of the North; beginnings that failed of their promise as the threat rose yet again in a new form. The _Butcher of Umbar_, the Witch King of Angmar, servant of _The Giver of Gifts_ and _The Abomination_ who twisted all to his grim thoughts; he has not forgotten us, those of his House and city who rose up against him. His children, he calls us. What fell form shall he assume that we must come to know and fear again?

"Should we not make the sacrifice now," I said at last, and her eyes searched mine, "any peace we might earn will be but for a little. It will not last. And when it ends, our lives, and those of our children, will be a horror as we have not seen afore, and we shall have no chance of escaping it."

Nesta nodded, but then her face twisted with grief of a sudden and she drew my hand to her brow and pressed it there as she wept. After a moment, she drew a deep breath and a stillness settled upon her.

She pressed a kiss to my knuckles ere she let our hands drop to her lap, where her thumb rubbed against mine as were it I she hoped to comfort. Mayhap I had need of it. I knew not what she saw in my face but found myself too weary to wonder what I felt.

"The Council meets ere tomorrow's evening meal. We shall need to talk in the morning, you and I and Pelara, I think," said I.

"Aye, that we must, my lady." She turned away to rest more fully against the wall behind us, but did not release my hand.

What would my lord say could he see me now? What would he think of the choice he made when first I alighted to the ground afore him and he took my hand in his? How much, then, would he regret what it cost him? For I stink with the blood of his people. Deep it is sunk within the fibers of dress and linen beneath it. I will not get it out. And at most, no matter they be injured of body or spirit, I could do naught but ease the pain of their passing.

_Ai!_ I wish most to be standing at my loom, long though it had been since I had the chance. Should I close my eyes and wish my thoughts far away, I would hear naught but the chiming of stone upon stone with my pulling upon the heddles and the whisper of threads as they slip one past another. I would feel not the thin tack of drying blood, but the tickle of wool and linen beneath my fingertips. Should I need pull on one thread, I knew there the touch that would be its limit and trust it could bear the burden. For there, I could wind thin line upon line, until I knew with certainty the form my efforts would take.

I must have fallen to drowsing, for Nesta's hand jerked in mine and I startled alert at somewhat brushing upon my leg.

"Nesta!" I heard and, to my surprise, found Ranger Haldren standing o'er us. With a stifled groan, he lowered himself to the greensward at our feet and, limb by limb, stretched out upon its cool surface. His mare stood upon the bit of toft behind him, tearing wearily at the grass, and I wondered that I had not awakened at the thudding of her steps.

"Do somewhat with that." He waved a hand at the sack he had dropped between Mistress Nesta and I and draped an arm o'er his eyes. "I will not take it back."

"And here I thought there was naught could frighten you, Uncle," said Nesta.

He grunted. "You would choose her o'er all others you could have had," he said. "She should be here, not halfway across the Angle."

Pelara shrugged as she opened the sack. "I have been asking since her youngest was married."

The warm scent of bread drifted upon the sack's opening and set my belly to rumbling. What I would not have given for Pelara's ale, but that shall have to wait until the fall harvest.

"Knife?" asked Nesta and Ranger Haldren withdrew a small blade from his belt, tossing its hilt to her.

Roused a little, he fumbled within his coat and pulled his flask from within while Nesta unwrapped a loaf of good, dark brown bread and a pot of soft sheep's milk cheese. I could smell the garlic from where I sat.

Ah, I had not had bread of so fine a texture and smooth a taste in some while. 'Twas all I could do not to gorge myself upon it.

When Ranger Haldren held out his hand for his own piece, Mistress Nesta gestured with her fingers at him and he sighed. Stoppering his flask, he tossed it to her in trade for a slice of the bread with a generous slathering of the cheese.

"Och," she spluttered after her first mouthful. "This is the worst yet," she said as she handed the flask to me. "Wherever did you get this?"

"Do not ask what you truly do not wish to know," he said, taking small bites of the bread and chewing them thoroughly as he lay there. His mare wandered over to snuffle at his face and hands, her ears pricked forward. She thrust her great nose between his arms when he attempted to hold the bread out of her reach.

"Get away, you great skamelar," he said, pushing at her nose, which did naught but tempt her to snorting and licking after the bread with her long tongue. "Aye, I will give you some, but first you must quit with your begging."

Glad was I to be forewarned, for the drink truly was vile. Though, this I would say for it; it burned as it went down the throat and settled warmly in my belly. 'Twas a pleasant enough that I took a second mouthful ere I tossed the flask back to its owner.

"Well, I shall grant her mercy for this," said Haldren, sucking at his thumb and then forefinger. He shook his head at his mount and patted her ere she huffed and swung her head away and returned to her meal of the grass. "At least she can cook, your woman, which is more than what I could say for my sister."

Nesta snorted. "My mother could cook, just not aught you would wish to eat were you healthy enough not to need it."

"And can you cook a good dish, Ranger Haldren?" I asked, sinking into the warmth of the liquor and watching the man with his beast. I had puzzled much as to his character in the past and had not seen him like this. He could be vicious and cold, sharp of temper and quick to cuff and berate the youths under his charge. And yet, I had heard more than one story of his carrying them great distances upon his own back when they were injured, and they jostled with one another for a position with him. For sure, any of his fostering were sure to advance quickly among their ranks.

"I have many talents, my lady, both natural and learned. Best way to a woman's bed is to cook for her," he said, whereupon Nesta kicked him in the shoulder.

"I tried my best to teach you the art of it, Nesta," he said with a smile that gleamed sharply in the dark, "but you have your mother's talents."

"I need not your talents, Uncle mine."

"Nay, you do not," he said. "Glad am I you were here and we close enough to make it to you. More were saved than I had thought to hope for."

"You have checked on your mewling babes?"

"Aye, and they have, nigh one and all, left off their mewling and sleep now." Haldren laid back upon the grass and closed his eyes. "I must leave on the morrow to meet our captain, and so I shall leave them to your care."

"You should not have brought him so far," she said. "'Twas truly cruel of you to let him suffer like you did."

"I offered. He refused," Haldren snapped. "Who am I to question it?"

Mayhap it was the liquor, or mayhap the weight of weariness upon me, but I had naught to say. For Melethron was dead and I would not hear of his tales nor Halbarad's complaints of them. Nor would his wife have much of laughter or light-hearted jests with her sister. I knew little how to feel. But ere I had much chance to puzzle over the lack, Haldren grunted and rolled to his side, pushing his way to standing.

"Come, Nesta," he said, "give me your farewell, unless you have naught but more bitter words for me."

He took up her reins, and his mare stumbled a step and shook herself from head to tail, the leather upon her flapping, for, her meal done, she had fallen to drowsing upon her feet.

"_I will see thee home, my lady, shouldst thee wish it_," he said.

"Aye, Haldren," I said and grabbed up my shoes, "and you are welcome to sleep at my lord's hearth tonight, should you wish to rest ere you take to traveling again."

"That I shall, my lady, and my thanks to you."

"Uncle," said Nesta. She stood and now took him by the head and pulled his brow down upon hers. "Forgive me my harsh words. I know you loved him."

He did little in response but submitted to her touch. She then drew in a breath, and releasing it, spoke.

"_Mayest thou remain fierce in our defense and may our enemy fear the rumor of thy approach and fly afore it. May they beneath thy care listen well and bear thee up when far from home. But dost thou not forget us and e'er shall we look to thy returning home."_

"Be well," he said and planted a kiss upon her brow.

By dint of his arm and shoulder beneath my thigh, he had pushed me to the saddle and taken his place behind me when next he spoke. "Tell that woman of yours to expect a visit from me should she not give you an answer ere my return."

"You shall leave it to me, Uncle, else I'll let your pin and ballocks rot off ere I treat them again," she said, and his low chuckle rumbled against my back.

"Ne'er fear, Nesta, I have found naught but one home for them, as you prescribed." He pressed his knee to the mare and she clomped in a slow arc to face the edge of the toft. "Or mayhap two," he said, shrugging, "I'll not be needing your aid with them."

With his arms about me, he set his mare to a walk and we swayed in the saddle with her movement.

"Worry not, my lady," he said to my stiff back, "If you will permit me, you may rest a little. I've not let a man slip from my hold yet."

With my nod, Ranger Haldren wrapped an arm about my middle and pulled me up tight against his breast. There I closed my eyes and recall little else from journey across the Angle but snatches of his low singing and humming to his mare as she walked. 'Twas not until much later I recognized the tune. For he sang a lament for the dead, as he had sung years ago in my father's hall afore the bier on which we had laid him.

~oOo~

"I could cure mayhap five of every ten who were sick with the coughing plague. Now? Now 'tis more like three," Mistress Nesta says to the Elders about my lord's table. Here, in the light of the afternoon, she speaks to them and they look upon her attentively. "They come to me weaker than afore. It has come for the aged and the young and the unlucky. I see now the unwanted, the uncared for, the nuisances and hermits, those who are alone and have none to care should they go hungry or have naught. Then next it shall come for the cotters, those with no land who must scrounge for what they have.

"Should we prevent it from coming for us all by the end," she says, "we cannot go on as we have been."

And we cannot. For, soon, all things will change.

Master Bachor's dark eyes stare back at mine o'er the line of his fingers as it clasps his chin. He no longer plays restlessly with his stylus. It is tucked away in the embossed leather that holds his wax tablet and set aside. He no longer presses me to address questions for which I have no answer or to speak of hope where I know not where to find it. Neither, too, do I hear Mistress Nesta's pleas nor the Council's response.

Bachor narrows his gaze upon me, and I know him uneasy for my examination of him. But I know not what he sees. For my thoughts tend not to him, either.

No, my thoughts are much occupied with other matters. For Nesta arrived early, well ere it was time for the Elders to sit at my lord's table.

There she pulled me from my work at the hearth into the buttery to speak in private. There, in the low light, she laid a hand upon my arm and said, "Lenniel has come down with fever and cough."

And when I would start and pull away, mute and staring at her, she tightened her grip and spoke firmly.

"I have brought _rûdh-glaew_ with me, my lady, and we must give it to your son, now, even should he not have signs of the sickness yet."

~oOo~


	49. Chapter 48

AN: Warning - child death

~ Chapter 48 ~

_A hush fell upon all as out from the host stepped the Dúnedain in silver and grey; and before them came walking slow the Lord Aragorn. He was clad in black mail girt with silver, and he wore a long mantle of pure white clasped at the throat with a great jewel of green that shone from afar; but his head was bare save for a star upon his forehead bound by a slender fillet of silver. _

ROTK: The Steward and the King

~oOo~

_~ TA 3017, 9th day of Yavannië_

_Lady Nienelen begs Mistress Pelara attend to the following:_

_Visit Master Bronon and Mistress Linnadis and assess their needs for food, clothing, and kindling. _

_Assist Mistress Nesta in her inventory and catalogue her anticipated needs ere the fall harvest._

_Visit those cotters upon the Angle who have applied for aid. Elesinda has maintained the list of those who have applied directly to the House._

_Take inventory of_

~oOo~

My lord's son pulls his tunic on over his head, screwing up his face at the effort of tugging the wool over his features.

"You may go, now, young master," Nesta says, rising from where she sits and going to the barrel by the hearth. "I am done with you."

_Ammë?_" he asks, his voice edged with vexation. "May I play outside, now?"

"Aye, but go no further than the pasture walls, _onya_."

"_Ammë!_" he protests and halts in wrapping his belt about his tunic to stare at me. "But I want to go play with Dammon and Mîdor. We were to go to the river now that the water is lower. I have been waiting to go fishing for months and you would not let me go!"

"Not today, I am afraid."

"But why not? I did as you asked and have done with my punishment. Why can I not go with them?"

"I will not argue the matter with you, _onya_," say I wearily. Most oft, I can find aught else to ease his mind, but naught comes to me and I can do little but take in the anguish upon his face.

"But there is naught to do here!" he cries, tears starting up in his eyes at the injustice of it. "And you will not let any of my friends come to visit! 'Tis so dull! And not even Elenir is here."

I would wonder for the irritation of my lord's son's mind, had we not just checked for fever.

"_Do as thou art bid or suffer the consequence. That is thy choice_," I say, and I think Edainion may soon take to throwing his belt to the floor and shouting and weeping should not his kinsman have stirred from where he sits at my lord's table, watching.

"Come, young master," he says, dropping his foot to the floor from where it had been propped upon the bench beside him. The wood creaks with his rising. "I am not so young as once I was. I doubt I can make so merry as your playmates, but what say you and I take my bow and see what we can find, eh?"

It does little, I think, to improve Edainion's mood, for though he does not protest, he makes no move to either complete his dressing or go with his kin.

"Do not take him far, Halbarad," I plead and Halbarad nods and gives me a brief smile. It is meant to reassure, though it does not reach his eyes.

Glad am I my lord's son has asked no questions of why I have kept him so close, why his kinsman has delayed his return to ranging upon the wider lands under his father's care, nor why his sister has spent the day afore and today in Mistress Pelara's home. Ne'er fear, he knows somewhat is amiss, but, with the mind of a child of seven years, gives it little thought unless it hinders his nearest desires.

"Wish you to climb _The Mountain_?" asks Halbarad as Edainion shuffles his way to the great door.

"I am not an infant," he protests, sulking and making much of fastening his belt as he walks.

"Aye, you have the right of it, you are much grown and long been in pants," allows Halbarad as he lifts his own bow and quiver from where they hang by the door. "Mayhap then, you should carry me."

Edainion's face rises of a sudden, startled at the idea. "Och! No, no, no!" he cries and shrinks away, for his kinsman has come upon him. They are much given to rough play, and I doubt not Halbarad would make the attempt, should it not simply end in my lord's son planted flat upon the floor under his booted foot.

"Well, best you climb to my shoulders, then."

Halbarad has gone down to one knee. Sure it is my lord's son knows he is being coddled and resents it, but the temptation proves too great, and he clambers upon the man's knee and up to his shoulders.

"Oof! _Little goat_," Halbarad complains, his face twisted into a great wince. "Your knees grow more pointed each day."

"Nay, Halbarad," Edainion says as the man eases to standing, holding the boy's legs to his breast with one arm. "You are just getting old."

"'Old' am I?"

"Aye," says Edainion and then squawks, for they have come upon the great door and his kin makes no move to stoop down to make room for his burden. Grunting with the effort, Halbarad makes much of his attempts to get through the door despite the impediment.

"Halbarad! Leave off! Go down! Give me room!"

"Forgive me, little goat." Halbarad halts and peers up where his lord's son is pressed to the lintel of the door, vainly attempting to fend it off with his hands. "_Mine aged eyes did not see thee there_."

"You have not forgot! You do this every time!"

It is not until the man has wrestled his kin's son into draping down upon his breast that he can then fit through the doorway, the child protesting the whole while.

"Och!" he cries. "Let me go, Halbarad! Stop it!"

"I have not known a goat to protest so much. Hush you, _little goat_, and quit poking _The Mountain_ with your sharp little hooves and elbows."

"Do you wish to try my bow?" Halbarad asks from beyond the door.

"It is too big for me," Edainion insists, though there is a wistful touch to his voice.

"I shall help you."

By the time they have walked down the toft and I can discern their words no longer, Mistress Nesta has cleaned her spouted metal bowl of the dregs of _rûdh-glaew_, tossing the water out one of the windows, and I have nigh shredded my apron for my clenching upon it.

Nesta had pressed her ear to the boy's breast and back, commanding him to fill his lungs as best he was able, his shoulders rising as he took great gulps of air. And no matter my examination of her face, I could tell naught of her thoughts.

"He has been playing and had no complaints?" she asks as she returns to the bench where we had been seated.

"None, but he awoke with full lungs." His coughing had awoken me and, in a panic, I had seized upon him, frightening him in my carelessness.

"Aye, well," she says and drops the bowl to the basket she had brought with her. Wrapping a bit of linen about the stopper, she presses and wiggles it securely into the narrow neck of the jar in which she had brought the remedy. "He has no fever and naught of the agitation and listlessness that comes with it. His breath sounds clear enough. It may be no more than a passing chill as he has been prone to of late, and he will be getting into his mischief as usual, my lady."

I move little when she sits next to me.

"Keep him close." She pats upon my knee, looking upon me earnestly. "And watch for signs of fever. Should you see it, send for me at once, my lady."

I nod, though I still cannot return her gaze. "How fares Lenniel?"

She sighs and is, I think, very reluctant to answer. "As best as can be hoped for," she says at last and rises from the bench, taking up her basket. "Send for me, should you have need, my lady. I will come."

It was some time ere I found the strength to rise to my feet and close the great door behind them. And even then, I knew not what to do with myself, for ne'er had my lord's hall felt so vast and cold. And, as the Council has declared for any house under watch for the sickness, I may take no company to distract me from my thoughts.

~oOo~

I set the bowl afore my lord's son, not daring to even look upon him, for I know his face falls.

"_Ammë_," he says, his voice small and thick with tears he struggles not to shed. "_Atarinya_ said I did not have to eat pease."

"_Ai, onya_," I sigh. "It is this or naught else."

I think mayhap he will protest, becoming angry at the betrayal, but, instead, he picks up his spoon and weakly pokes at the pottage. 'Tis a thick green with the dried pease I had reserved to the very last, so reluctant was I to serve them to him. Even now it breaks my heart, for, though he struggles mightily to swallow, he must become accustomed to them. We have little else in the pantry, a few bushels of beans and oats, no spring wheat, and should the weather not clear, little rye upon the fall harvest, either.

Our bread is of poor make and crumbles as we attempt to eat it. I eke out the flour, adding ground acorns to the dough as much as I dare. Though boiling them removes much of the bitter taste and comforts our bellies' unease with the nuts, it adds no flavor and little of value. I seek only to give us the illusion of a full belly, for it will be our only comfort from it in the months to come.

I lay a bowl afore my seat by my lord's son, and Halbarad passes the butter to me and I am grateful. It shall give at least some flavor to what I eat. I go to seat myself and then it is I see my lord's son's face, lowered as it is over his bowl. Oh, but he valiantly attempts to hide his tears.

I set down the butter with such force the sound startles Halbarad into staring at me. I cannot return his gaze.

_Ai! _I can take no more_. _

When I hold my arms out to him, my lord's son fairly flies into them.

"_Ai, onya_," I sigh and thus we remain, he cradled against my breast and my face pressed to his curls. I think Halbarad has given up his attempts at eating, and watches us silently, fiddling with his empty spoon.

"_Mamil?_" Edainion asks, his voice coming wearily from where his face presses to me. "When is _atarinya_ to come home?"

Ah, but my heart aches. I dare not glance across the table at my lord's kinsman, for in all the years of death and fear he has suffered, I have ne'er seen him so nigh to weeping.

"He returns when he can, _onya_," I say, holding my lord's son close. "I know he thinks of you when he is away."

The small face turns to me and his eyes glitter with what I think must be tears.

"You remember the bit of hair we gave your father?" I ask and he nods. "I am sure he keeps it close, and when he rests for the night, brings it out where he can see it and think of you."

A smile is all I have to offer my child of comfort, but this I give and press my lips to his hair. It is then I feel the burning of my lord's son's brow.

I brush aside the dark curls to press my hand upon the skin of his brow and cheeks. My face must betray my dismay, for Halbarad has lowered his spoon and stares at the boy.

"Are you tired, _onya_?" I ask and he nods his head against my breast, his face solemn. "What say you go upstairs to rest a while and I shall make you a broth?"

"I will be up in a little," I say when Edainion lingers at the stairs, no doubt puzzling out why his mother and kinsman look upon him so intently.

Halbarad shoves his bowl from him.

I remain rooted, staring at the empty door.

"Halbarad," I say, the hall silent behind me but for the settling of the burning wood in the hearth. "When you finish, will it please you to go for Mistress Nesta?"

The rustle of cloth betrays his rising and I turn to him.

"I will go now," he says and I see he has made his way swiftly to the great door.

~oOo~

My lord's son's hair lies plastered to his face, its curls lost in the dampness upon them. He clutches his carved horse in his fingers, their oils staining the toy as had it worn the imprint of a saddle after a hard ride.

We have changed his bedclothes and the linens in which he rests. It broke my heart to do so, for he complained and cried as we moved him, weary and aching as he must be. But the water I sponged on his breast and limbs has cooled his skin and now he settles more comfortably than afore. The coughing has eased some, but his eyes are over-bright and I think he shall not sleep well tonight.

Mistress Nesta has gone downstairs to join Halbarad where he paces about the hall and we are alone again but for the sounds that rise from down the stairs. Ever and anon I hear Halbarad's slow and heavy footsteps traveling from hearth to table to window to door and back again.

"May I see Elenir?" Edainion asks, fretfully plucking at the feet of his toy horse.

"Please, _Mamil?_ I will be good!" His voice whines with the ill-feeling of the young.

Wringing out the pad of cloth, I press cool water upon his brow. "Ah, _onya_, it has naught to do with being good. You are always good, even when you are not," I say and swipe at the tip of his nose. But it does not make him smile.

"Not now,_ little one_," I say. "You are not well and must rest to regain your strength. When you are feeling better, then you will spend all the time you wish with your sister."

I do not tell him his sister is not here. She stays in the house of Mistress Pelara. There the wife of her son nurses my child and keeps her warm. I have been warned and, with a heavy heart, sent word for her to stay away.

~oOo~

"The guard upon the granaries and sheds has been set as you commanded, and we shall have more wine for Mistress Nesta in a few days," says Halbarad. "Aught else should be brought to the Council?"

I have made myself small so I might fit upon the last step into the solar and there roll between forefinger and knee an errant linen thread that had found its way upon my dress. Here we sit and speak atimes, forbidden from coming closer than the distance of the room.

"Should you find a way to have the Council agree to ration what comes of the fall harvest, with this rain it is like as not to—"

Halbarad's wry snort puts a halt to aught else I would say on the subject. He has perched his bulk upon a low stool along the far wall of the parlor, where he bends o'er his wax tablet amidst my long-neglected baskets of wool, yarns, and threads and tools.

"Aye, well," I say, rolling the thread so its ends are a blur of movement. "I have also given thought to the next spring's harvest. It must not fail, for our greatest need shall be ere it ripens. Should the pattern hold, it seems we are more like to have more of rain than drought. I have asked Master Herdir to reinforce the dikes and ditches. The pastures and fields may yet flood, despite this, and so we must have means of responding quickly. The faster we get to the work, the more of the plantings we may rescue. We shall need set a watch upon the dam. That Master Herdir can do without consulting the Council, but we shall need means of assembling crews and setting them to the work to be done without the delay of debate and confusion should they be needed. The arrangement we used to alert folk of the need to retreat to the defensive woodworks may be our best option and be easiest recalled come the time."

This, at least, Master Bachor is not like to protest.

Rapidly his stylus scrapes upon the wax to the dark wooden surface below. Halbarad nods in understanding without looking up. "I shall have it put to them. They can meet in Elder Maurus' hall the better to give you quiet."

"Sedwyn and Hammad are yet missing," he says. "That takes our numbers lost to seven in these three months past."

_Ai!_ We lose men up on the Wild faster than afore.

"We shall need to replace them soon, else we shall lose all hope of warning of incursions from the east. We must protect the southern passes, as the greater threat to the Shire comes from there. I have sent Mathil and Boradan to the south, to Tharbad, but that leaves a gap between the High Pass and the Ettenmoors through which our Enemy could send a troupe of wargs and their riders and, despite all the destruction they leave in their wake, we would never see it.

"Do not say it," he says, not deigning to look upon me. He need not, for I am sure my surprise has stilled my hands and set my gaze upon him.

"You sent Mathil away," I say, whereupon Halbarad sighs.

"Would you rather I kept him close?"

I cannot say I am surprised, but had hoped he would not send Mathil so far. Should it come to it, I would not have my lord's kinsman alone in his house. For I know not what dark thoughts would trouble him and what he would do to keep them silent.

"He would not have liked the command much."

"I gave him little choice."

"Nor had much fondness for that, either."

"When I succumb to the sickness you may order my men about as you please, my lady," he says, with some heat. "But not ere that."

I raise my hands in surrender ere dropping them again to my lap. 'Tis no use. As many times as I had offered invitation to bring Mathil more closely into my lord's House, each time had Halbarad refused. I would not begrudge them the privacy they prefer, but had hoped, mayhap, time had healed the wound of what he could not have, and my lord's kinsman did not feel so torn. Halbarad had not taken kindly to the interference.

He rubs his fingers upon his brow and returns to considering his notes.

"Haldren has found a good number of likely candidates among the women of the wandering folk," he goes on. "They have no need for our tutoring to live and travel upon the wastes, being much used to the journey from pasture to pasture, and some are already much skilled in knife play or use of a bow or axe. All ride very well. Trackers and messengers seem to be the best place for them until they are more used to the sword. Though, we have more metal and skill for the making of axes and pikes, which they could wield from horseback."

"And they are willing?"

He shrugs, still looking at his notes. "As willing as any who have volunteered."

He does not say it, but by the shifting upon his seat and the fact he will not look upon me, I know his thoughts as uneasy as mine. Each Ranger's family receives a portion of the House's tithe in food and goods. The hungrier the Angle grows, the more its young folk are willing to take the risk in exchange for unburdening their kin of their bellies.

"Are there any impediments to my calling upon them to serve?"

"You must ask Elder Bachor this," I say and at this he looks up.

"I am asking you."

"I am not the one to ask."

After some time in which he drums his stylus against the edge of his hinged tablet, he goes on.

"Muindir does well. He has infection, but it has not spread. He responds well to the treatment Mistress Nesta set him. I have talked to our smiths as you requested. Mistress Tanril agrees they have great need of skilled hands to help with the work."

"Aye, that is a good. _My thanks to thee_ for speaking to them."

"Aye, he is a quick study and clever with his hands. Could he learn to curb that wit of his, he has the mind for that and more besides. Give him some more years and 'twould be a good to have a smith upon the Council again." Here he pauses. "He should know to whom he is beholden for this chance."

"No," I say.

"My lady, his parents hold much influence among the wandering folk who live here."

"I know it, but I would not have you tell them. Should I come to know them, it is best it not be burdened by obligation."

Halbarad considers me closely. It seems he would have some argument to present, but, after some time, accepts this and does not press.

"I have taken Haldren into my confidence," he says.

Well then. I doubt not Ranger Haldren had worked out much of it on his own. The man misses little.

"He knows everything?" I ask.

"All I know, I told him."

"How did he take it?"

Halbarad shrugs. "As he takes all else, with little comment but much play of thoughts behind his eyes. He is well able to take my place should I fall ill."

Ah, could but women hold a position of some authority in the Angle, I could say the same.

"The command of your men, aye, but would he take Mistress Pelara into his confidence, think you?"

"I will recommend her to him," Halbarad says ere a smile breaks upon his face. "Though I shall greatly regret not being here to see it should it come to it."

Here I join his chuckling, rolling the back of my head against the wall against which I lean. Should they join forces, I fear for any of the Council who might oppose them, should they not bring the hall down about them in the process.

Above our heads comes the creak of the boards and the complaint of a young voice. We fall silent and listen for a time.

"Nesta says Elenir and Elesinda show no sign of fever and have taken the cure," Halbarad offers, his voice quiet. "And Lenniel shows signs of improvement."

No doubt he wishes but to give me what reassurance he can, in absence of aught else. For he cannot think 'twas not the first question I asked when Nesta arrived.

"Not the most unpleasant of tastes, despite the strong smell, but I doubt I shall e'er drink wine again without thinking of it," he says.

I nod. "Mistress Nesta has arranged for those not at risk among her aides to spell me atimes, but they are stretched so thin, it will be no more than a few hours at a time."

"Aye, we have folk expanding her sickhouse to accommodate those who have nowhere else to be confined even now."

'No!" we hear sharply from above.

"Come now," Mistress Nesta soothes over Edainion's whining.

"We should arrange a portion of the tithe to be sent to Mistress Pelara's kin," I say though I look more to the head of the stairs where the mistress' shadow flickers. "I would not have them overburdened for Elenir and Elesinda's care."

Halbarad nods and makes quick note upon his tablet. "I shall arrange it. We have had an abundance of women offer themselves as wet nurse. I can arrange recompense for them, as well. Should not be difficult to prevent hardship on any one house for a short while. Do not worry so should you not be able to keep your milk up. We will find a way to keep Elenir well fed and strong no matter what comes."

"What?" he demands, for this has brought my look sharply upon him.

"I cannot fathom you speaking of such things so easily when first you approached me in my father's garden."

"No," he says wryly, though his look is fond. "Mayhap not, but I have changed more swaddling and soothed more infant tears than e'er I thought would be my fate since then."

"No, no, no, no!" comes the shout above, followed swiftly by the ringing of a metal bowl upon the floor.

"Sweet Arda unstained, child," comes Nesta's low voice.

I spring from my seat, peering into the solar from below.

"My lady? Your help, I beg you."

Halbarad, too has risen from his seat. "Go to him. I am not leaving. We will speak again soon and finish this."

~oOo~

"_Mamil?_"

I stir, for I had drifted away, submerged beneath the overcast sky and the hours of vigil I keep in the solar.

The room stinks of wine and ox gall and cropleek until I can smell naught else. For in the agitation of his fever, my lord's son fought Mistress Nesta and knocked a bowl of the stuff from his lips, and it is sunk deep into the dry grain of the wooden floor.

My lord's son awakes and coughs, his small body wracked with the effort to breathe. He gasps for breath as were he a fish plucked from the river and left to fend for itself upon dry land. I shift about, sitting without disturbing the linen that covers my lord's son so I might pour water in the cup nearby. When he is done, I prop him to sitting and hold the cup so he may drink. His lips are rough, though oft I rub them with fat.

"Do you hunger, _onya_?" I ask as I lay him down and set aside the cup, but he shakes his head.

I shall not force him, for he drank of a good, strong broth not hours ago. Brought by Mistress Pelara, she left it at the bottom of the stairs and called up to us where we lay in the solar. She brought, too, offerings of aid from throughout the Angle; toys and amusements of various makes, food our folk can ill-afford to give, a silk scarf as is prized by the women of the wandering folk, the chance to sleep while others watched. I sent Pelara away, though she would brave all and come up the stairs and sit with us a while. She need bring little news. I already know the harvest shall be delayed and I wished not to hear of it. For I hear enough of the drops of rain that strike the leaves outside the window and smell the wet earth of the soft evens. I cannot recall what it is to sit in a pool of sun and feel warmed for it.

I tip the wrap of cloth upon my lord's son's breast, but the poultice still smells strong and so I leave it be. I wring out the cloth in the bowl of cool water by our bed. When I lay it upon his brow, my lord's son opens his eyes and looks upon me. I think them full of dreams and distant lands, but then he speaks, though it be but a soft, hoarse sound.

"Will you tell me a story, _Mamil?_"

With that, I burrow beneath the covers and take my lord's son's head upon my breast.

"What do you wish to hear, _onya_? Shall I tell you the story of your father's return?"

_Ai!_ So weak is he, the burst of coughing wearied him beyond all speech. The lids that close are so thin it seems I can see the dark of his eyes beneath them. He says naught.

Aye, 'tis true, that tale is too close. Ah, mayhap stories of my mother's kin would bring more comfort. I doubt not they could tell tales of fear and loss, but hope and forbearance as well. For surely these tales are told at such times. But my mother was not here to tell them, and I know them not.

"Then shall I tell you the story of my father and the honeybees?"

A slight smile comes to my lord's son's lips.

"Aye, then, so it shall be."

There, in the bittersweet of spilled wine rising from the floorboards, with my lord's son's head resting upon my shoulder and the tips of my finger stirring the damp strings of his hair upon his brow, I begin.

"So it was, in the beginning of my fifteenth year, when a girl is to celebrate her entry into womanhood and a party is called among her kin, I begged of my father honey to make the sweetest and silliest of cakes. For shaped of hedgehogs they were, with pointed quills of hazelnuts and bodies sticky with honey. But, alas, there was no honey to be found, neither in our pantry nor in the market. And being the silly girl I was, this made me weep, for, like you, I had a great love of the sweet and sticky hedgehogs. Ah, and there is little a father can do to defend against the tears of his young daughter.

"Upon the next dawn, my father rose and went he to the baker, who now you know as our Elder and grandsire to your playmate, Lothel. For her father has taken upon himself the labor of the Angle's ovens in her grandsire's stead. My father bore Maurus' words well, for the baker spoke much of the ills of honey for a lass so young."

I pitch my voice as would make my lord's son laugh when e'er I told the tale. "Ah, Melendir, you know naught of the rotting of teeth it shall give her should you not forbid it, and then none shall marry her and she shall die an unmarried maid and you shall have no grandchildren to support you in your dotage.' But my father listened not to him, though all his forbearance was in vain. For, alas, the baker had no honey to give him no matter how he beg for it."

And when next I draw breath to go on with my tale, for should the adventure continue, it meanders across great perils in the Misty Mountains and into the land of the Beornings where my father claimed to have been chased by honeybees the size of sheep ere he made his way home, I know my lord's son asleep for the labored lift of his breast against my ribs. The tale can wait. Let him sleep. I lay back my head, though the middle of the day comes upon us.

Ah, should I brew more of comfrey and willow bark to gentle his body's soreness and cool his burning skin? Or should I ask Halbarad to send for Mistress Nesta and beg of her more guidance?

Nay, I will do neither, for both shall take me from my lord's son's side and I wish to see no more of the pity in the healer's glance and the grim line of her mouth that can tell me no more than I already know. For of the last she came to see us, she said naught but to give him comfort and pray. In the quiet that fell after our visitors left, I heard the soft sounds of a low voice weeping below stairs, but I had naught left of comfort to offer my Great Hound. And though the folk come to stand vigil upon my lord's toft and line the path afore the great door to his hall, neither do I go to them. For I have no wish to play Lady and be gracious and bear their grief and fear for them. I would have no other's eyes upon me. Nay, I shall stay here until my son awakes again and he can look upon me and know I am here.

~oOo~

My eyes fly open upon the dark shadows of night. The rushlight I had burning has guttered out and my back is stiff for the sitting in my chair and leaning o'er the table. My eyes search, but I see naught. O'er the quickened beating of my heart, I listen, but I hear naught. Not cricket seeking drier shelter at the foot of the house, nor rain or wind upon the raised and fastened shutters, nor stirring below stairs where Halbarad sleeps.

Dark have been my dreams. Though foresight may come upon my lord and his kin, I know none of it. My dreams are of more mortal make. They are borne of naught more than a lady long without the company of her lord and husband, a man she knows walks terrible roads, and wishes he were home.

Of late, when I close my eyes and leave the Angle behind, I see my lord in a great company of men from many lands. Tall are their spears and fey is the light in their eyes. The shadows of dark towers fall upon them and I hear the screaming of men and the bawling of their horses, for they are but islands in a flood of monstrous forms let loose from behind tall black gates. My lord roars in a fearsome voice and swings at his enemy with a long sword whose make I know not. There he throws them down. Ever he hews the orcs and men that clutch at him, yet ever there is another and another to take his enemy's place. A fell shadow swoops from above and grim and hardened men fall groveling to the barren field in its passage. The summit of a great mount tumbles away and ash spews forth from it broken maw. The ground shakes. And above all swarms a great cloud of dark-winged birds as were they awaiting the grim harvest's end so they might alight upon the field and pluck at what is left.

But now I dream not. A howl rises and falls o'er the distant hills, and I know why I have awakened. I hope the sheep safe in their sheds. There are wolves in the hills. They grow hungry and the Lord of the Dúnedain does not return to banish them.

In the dark, I listen for the wheeze that is the breath of my lord's son rising against the linen that covers him or the rustling of bedclothes as he moves in his sleep. And I hear naught.

~oOo~


	50. Chapter 49

~ Chapter 49 ~

"_Soon after a deadly plague came with dark winds out of the East. The King and all his children died, and great numbers of the people of Gondor, especially those that lived in Osgiliath. Then for weariness and fewness of men the watch on the borders of Mordor ceased and the fortresses that guarded the passes were unmanned._

_Later it was noted that these things happened even as the Shadow grew deep in Greenwood, and many evil things reappeared, signs of the arising of Sauron."_

Appendix A: Annals of the Kings and Rulers

~oOo~

_~ TA 3017, 14th day of Yavannië: No entry _

~oOo~

So small, the grave. So meager the handful of earth I hold.

I recall little of the gathering of folk in my lord's hall. There came the Elders of the Council, the pledgeholders of the Angle, and my lord's men and their kin. The hall warmed with the company and filled with their voices as had not since I wedded my lord. Aye, there was food I did not make, stories I did not tell, and singing in which I did not raise my voice. No words had I for Master Bachor when he would offer his sympathies. Nor could I bring myself to look upon him, until he, unnerved, bowed o'er my hand and let me be. I did not stand beside the bier of pine boughs and fine, wrapped linens set beneath the banner of silk, nor watched when Ranger Halbarad laid the last of the small toys he had carved upon it. For it had been my hands alone that had washed my son and, at the last, pressed the bit of wet earth to his brow. I had forbidden any other hand to help. It is this I recall best, and the smell of spoiled wine that yet lingered in the solar, the sound of the keening as it echoed in the high rafters of my lord's hall, and the sight of his chair, barren and set aside, as should not be.

In this he is unlike my father, for I see him framed in the dark earth upon which he lies, and he is my son. It is the face I know, from newborn infant with his wide, unblinking stare to the boy who tagged behind his father's footsteps and turned his eager face up to catch a glimpse of the warm light reflected in his father's eyes.

My hand wavers above the open earth and my fingers are as roots of trees as have wormed their way through the rubble that is our fallen towers. I cannot open them. Indeed, they clasp the dirt in my palm the harder. When silt trickles from between my fingers and alights upon the cloth that covers my son, my fist snatches itself back to my breast. There it feels as a rock pressing upon me and I can neither breathe nor remove my hand.

"My lady," I hear whispered behind me and hands reach for my arm, but I wrench myself away from their touch.

Bitter is the taste in my mouth, a dust of days spent in labor upon fruitless fields.

"Let her go," comes the deep, gentle murmur.

An arm catches me about the shoulders. I turn to see a face framed in silvered hair and cheeks streaked with the pearl of shed tears, and I know her, a woman of the Dúnedain, as am I. "Daughter," she once called me long ago in this very place. It is she that walks with me now upon one side, Pelara, and with her, Nesta, upon the other, ever my companions in this my path through the entering of the circles of this world and the leaving of it.

Together, we stumble through the forest of tall evergreens, I pulling against their firm step with my unsteady feet. Soft footfalls follow us, and I think Halbarad has sent one of his youths behind to guard me.

I stand in the sunlight, blinking as had I emerged from the darkness of the buttery on the brightest summer's day. Dust stains the front of my dress and my hand remains clutched there. Deep and painful within my fist are the folds of the small purse I yet wear about my neck, for I have clutched it tightly through dress and shift until I think my hand frozen there.

A tall shadow falls o'er my eyes and I stare at the grave face that considers me.

"Halbarad," say I, and then words fail me. For he sent himself, no other, and I think only he has missed the building of the mound and the setting of the stones to mark its place, he who had every right to see it to the end and put his mark upon it had he wished.

I think they fed me a tea of balm and valerian laced with stronger drink, there in Elder Maurus' hall, one cup after another until the very smell sickened me and I pushed their hands away. Mayhap they hoped I would break and shed the tears they sought, but I do not recall weeping.

Soft come low voices from within the Elder's inner rooms through my drunken haze. I know not what they say, but I know they speak of me. They would have me stay within these walls, but I want none of it. E'er had I risen unsteadily to my feet and e'er had they begged it of me. 'Twas not until I shouted for them to leave me be and flung the Mistress' pitcher against the wall did they cease.

The old man sits across his table from me and I do naught but stare at his eyes. Deep they seem with years and the things he has seen. A viscous smell of spilled tea, honey, and distilled rye beer clings to the very air. He makes no attempt at reasoning, nor asks me what I wish, but returns my gaze and, taking my hand in his, clasps it in his rough grip.

Thus we stayed until Halbarad returned, and I listened to the sounds of my infant daughter's crying from within.

I know not from whence, but Halbarad found me a mount. There I cling to the saddle as he leads us through the Angle's square and upon the path to my lord's hall. He is silent and the mare biddable, walking at his shoulder as the reins hang in his loose grip.

The sun has passed to the west, the day wearing on ere we started upon our journey, and his rays wink from behind the swaying canopy. For the wind blows fitfully upon us and sings through the pines. Shadows slip lightly upon the path, the boughs above our heads bending to the wind and sending their last season's needles to drift upon the air. There they float about us and catch the sun. Slender and golden and glinting they follow us and dance to the soughing of the wind coming to us from far away across the seas.

There upon the barrows it seemed even the dim sun was over-bright and hurt my eyes. Dark was the hair of he who bent in the dazzling light of the day to capture somewhat had spilled from some granddam's basket and broad were his shoulders. Clothed as he was in the garb of the Rangers, I started and stared. Had my lord returned to the Angle and not told me? Would my son have the comfort of his father at the last? But then he rose and turned about, and it was not he, nor not much like, either.

Ah, my treacherous heart would lie to me. Lie it had and lie it would e'en now should I let it. No truth was there to be found in its tell-tale beating. And I, betrayed by its deceit, dispelled the speech of my heart and knew my waiting was in vain.

Little did I know, but the fitfulness of mind that came upon me that day among the barrows heralded the beginning of a fever that left me burning and muddled of thought. I coughed until I thought sure I had no lungs left and oft awoke with a start in the middle of the night, my heart racing and gasping for breath as had I emerged from beneath deep waters.

Long swathes of the swell of light and dark fill my memories of this time, broken by the glimpse of a face, hands urging me to movement, the taste of wine made bitter in its fermenting, or the weak thrusting of bedclothes from atop me when over-hot and long moments of shivering when I was chilled. I would not swear to it, but I see Halbarad, that quiet face as cold and hard as stone and within which were set eyes so bleak they seem untouched by the rushlight in the darkened solar where he sits upon the head of the stairs.

In the long reaches of the darkened hours between memory, I dreamed of the sharp goad of fear and the search for a child I could not see. Cries echoed amidst the weight of stone upon stone shifting with the bitter winds of chance, walls creaking and groaning beneath the assault. These dreams in turn gave way to the sound of waves upon a rocky shore and the cries of gulls and small birds piping. High walls of stone reached above the surf and rose in waves to a height that stood as the head of a great ship breaking upon the water. Light poured down upon the city below from the battlements as had a star descended to rest upon its high prow. There I wandered through stone halls as had I the oversight as to their apportioning, the installment of furnishings upon the walls and in rooms that opened from them, the laying of the table for the feast welcoming the king and his court, and the assignment of where they would lay their heads.

Mistress Nesta was, as might be thought, relentless with her foul poultices and badgering, but when I became too weak to hold even the lightest of spoons, she fed me herself. That first morn upon my waking when I felt strong enough to attempt the stairs, it was to find the hall empty but for Halbarad. There he sits at my lord's table. I would have thought him at work, but no parchments, maps, or journals litter the table. Instead, he clasps his hands upon its bare surface, his thumbs working against each other and his eyes trained upon the many-rayed star rising above a becalmed sea, set as it is in silk behind my lord's empty chair.

He turns about when my footsteps announce my entrance and then swiftly he rises, his face open and startled.

"I want my daughter," was all I said and Halbarad drew himself up tall and bowed, his face stern.

~oOo~


	51. Chapter 50

~ Chapter 50 ~

'_Andúril!' cried Aragorn. 'Andúril for the Dúnedain!'  
Charging from the side, they hurled themselves upon the wild men. Andúril rose fell, gleaming with white fire. _

TTT: Helm's Deep

~oOo~

_~ TA 3017, 30__th__ day of Yavannië: Mistress Nesta reports a number of cracked ribs, more than one man concussed who remains under her care, one arm twisted to the point of fracture, and an abundance of lacerations and bruises. _

~oOo~

I lean upon Master Herdir's hand as he helps me down from the back of his cart. Ranger Saer stands behind us and sweeps his gaze o'er the field, path, and sheds, and the folk of the Angle who gather about them.

_Ai!_ I have lain so long abed my legs no longer support me for very long, and even the effort of sitting and clutching upon the side of the cart as we traveled the distance of the Angle has left me worn. I abandon my wool wrap to the bed of Master Herdir's cart and eye the steps into the granary warily. There the granary stands, implacable and blank, perched high upon its straddle stones.

I can make my way down the stairs from the solar upon my waking when I am most refreshed, but even then must cling to the wall and take the risers one at a time. Of the evens, when I drift to drowsing at my lord's table and words fail to form themselves beneath the quill I hold, Halbarad has taken to lifting his lord's wife into his arms and ponderously making our way from step to step into the solar. At the first, he complained of how heavy I was and begged I leave off stuffing myself with roasted meats and honeyed-figs, for all he need little help sweeping me from my feet and held me lightly. I could think of naught to say in return of my lord's Rangers and their bellies in general, nor Halbarad's love of sweets in specific, and so a leaden silence fell. And now we speak little when he bears me up the stairs.

_Ai! _ I know not how I shall raise myself from one step to another into the granary with naught to help bear my weight. And so many are the eyes watching to assess my state and bear news of it about the Angle.

Elder Tanaes lifts himself from where he leans back upon the granary wall, easing his weight from his lame limb. There beside him, among the rest of the Elders, stand two sturdy lads with thick, wooden cudgels swinging from their belts. They are but one pair of many men we have set about the granaries and storehouses. These two most oft accompany Master Herdir on his rounds. E'en as we approached, Master Bachor emerged and, ducking beneath the low door and the eaves of the thatched roof above it, tripped lightly down the steps. It seems that rumor had circulated among our folk as the Council awaited the Lady of the Dúnedain, and a crowd of a dozen or more have drifted hither.

The Elders' faces are grim and the folk are uneasy. They shift about and mutter amongst themselves. Tanaes proceeds us up the stairs, and for this I am grateful. He has had long habit with his own lameness and needed no plea to recognize the struggle in me. He sets a slow pace and I must match it to follow him within and can give no heed to Master Bachor's offer of his arm.

For the low clouds of the day and the youth standing in its door, the inside of the granary is dim, but I need not see to know what concerns my lord's reeve. A faint musty smell wafted from the grain through the open door and even now my eyes itch and water. I swallow against the tickle in my throat for the rising chaff. No longer is my cough wet, but my throat and lungs are so abused my breath whistles within my chest at night and awakens me. It takes little to set me to coughing, and much effort then to draw a clear breath after.

And there it is. E'en I can see it through the burning that comes upon my eyes. Here and there the dark shield of the thatch overhead is broken and light seeps in. Some hand has taken a long, sharp tool to it and rent the cover it provides to our harvest. It was well done. No break in the roof is placed so that the water would drip and alert Master Herdir by its noise. Instead, the walls are damp from where last night's rain trickled in and ran in rills to the floor where the planks of wood absorbed it.

Master Herdir pries open the top of a cask and the smell arising ere it is fully open sets Master Bachor to cursing and sneezing. I must cover my nose with my sleeve. I dare not get close enough to look within for fear I shall start coughing and not be able to draw a clear breath in the stink. Better prepared than any of us, it seems, Elder Lorn peers deep into the cask o'er a dampened scarf tied close about his face while Elder Fuller gasps at the air from betwixt his fingers.

"I've not been able to sleep a wink the past fortnight. 'Twas a dread that lay heavy in my bones, and I knew not why," says Master Herdir and thrusts the handle of his cudgel into the grain. "I'd set men to give each of our granaries a check, but 'twas not 'til this morn I checked them myself and the smell alerted me."

As he stirs, I hear not the sharp clatter of grain upon grain but the moist tearing of root from root, and I gag behind my sleeve.

"Is there naught for it?' asks Elder Fuller and wipes at his eyes.

"Elder, they eat this, man or beast, and it will rot them from the inside. I have seen it afore. They can eat none of it," Herdir says, knocking his cudgel free of the mess upon the edge of the cask and gesturing with it at the dark shadows of barrels and sacks stored within. "It's best we be rid of both this and the building about it, as I'd not trust aught else we stored here e'en should we dry it out. And I've got three more granaries just like this one here."

"Burn it."

As one, the men's faces turn to me in the dimness that is the granary.

"Master Herdir," I say when he does not move.

He jerks his head in a nod and claps the lid back to the cask ere he touches his fingers to his brow and brushes past Master Bachor. There is naught else to do, and so I turn and follow him.

Once outside, I make my way unsteadily to the edge of the field behind the granary, ignoring all the folk and Elders and their pleas for speech with me. For I am unable to either see or hear them.

_Ah! _

Had I the voice for it I would rage against the sky. Dark clouds hang low, their bellies brushing against the high branches of the trees. Oh, I think I know now the battle rage that must come upon my lord and his men. For I tremble with fury and wish to strike out, to take whatever is in my hands and smite aught afore me with all the strength I possess, to pound it into the mud at my feet until it is bloody and battered and I can no longer recognize its form.

But there is naught afore me and naught in my hands, just the shadows that play upon the fields, and I have no weapon that might wound them. I can do naught but stand stiffly upon the edge of the empty field and shake.

They have followed me here, the Elders of the Council. Behind my back they grow restless and I can hear their feet stirring the dried grasses and fallen leaves upon the verge.

My look must be grim indeed should it reflect aught of what I see on their faces as I walk through their midst back to the cart.

"Do you not wish the Council to consider our course, my lady? The hallmoot is upon the morrow and I cannot think what the folk will make of it should we do naught to address it then." Elder Tanaes turns on his good leg and hobbles close behind.

"What is there to debate? It is done," I say and walk as swiftly as I can across the uneven turf. "There is but one way to rid ourselves of it. Should we delay, we are sure to find some of it gone and there will be folk who attempt to fill their bellies with it and others who shall attempt to profit from their need."

Without my knowing it, Master Bachor comes to my side. He stands afore me and either I must halt or attempt to evade him. "I agree with you, my lady," he says and lifts a hand to stop my progress. "But do you think it wise to do it just now? Can you not speak to them?"

'Tis then I hear the people of the Angle, for more have gathered while we were within. They crowd about the stairs to the granary and their murmuring turns to shouting. I cannot hear their words, but it seems they demand answers. I push past Master Bachor and he hurries to follow.

"Ranger Saer!" I call as I come upon the front of the granary. I had left him behind, and he had stood between the Elders and the granary; awaiting our return or guarding our backs, I know not which.

"My lady?" he asks, turning to walk with me.

"Escort Master Herdir into the granary and have him bring out a barrel. Guard the door behind him so none may get in."

"Aye, my lady." His glance flickers o'er the folk gathered there, but he does as he is told and pushes past folk crowded upon the greensward. He follows Master Herdir as he climbs the granary stairs with his bucket of pine pitch. There Ranger Saer stands at the top of the stairs and draws his sword.

I have but time to see the sharp edge of light flick from his blade o'er the crowd when Master Bachor thrusts his arm behind him, keeping me back. For the folk gathered about the granary are calling my name and surge to the foot of the stairs, blocking my way to it.

"What need have ye for a Ranger's sword to keep us out?"

"My lady! What is it?" calls Master Fimon. His hand shading his light grey eyes as he peers at us, he strains to see o'er the heads of the men afore him. "What are you keeping from us? Bachor!"

"Let me through and I will tell you!" I say, for Ploughman Gworon has pushed his way to the front and there he shouts and thrusts his finger at me.

"You would do naught but have us further beneath your heel, Nienelen."

At this, there is a jostling in the back and men stumble forward.

Master Bachor stops and stands all the taller. He is very still, as were every sinew strung tight.

"Let me through!" I demand, but Bachor's arm yet holds me back and he has locked eyes with Gworon. _Ai!_ Those two!

Should I just get through and stand upon the stairs, there I could be seen and I could address the folk and their concerns.

The men stumble beneath the weight of shoving behind them. They call out somewhat I cannot discern and then the toft explodes with the sound of shouting and stones striking the granary walls. The men at the front of the crowd and afore it duck and fall to the ground. I know not what Bachor shouts. I cannot tell for the din. But, putting all his weight behind it, he thrusts men back from where they crowd upon the granary. Last I see him, Master Fimon has pushed his way to the front and there, with a look of betrayal upon his face, shouts back at Bachor and, with a great shove, nigh thrusts Bachor to the ground.

Distant upon the edge of the noise of the crowd I hear a voice call, "Southron bitch!"

But ere I have heard the words for what they are a dark shape hurtles into view and pain blooms upon my face. I am on the ground with my hand clapped to my brow. Blood streams into my eye. I blink against its burning from where I have propped myself up. I see naught but the stamping of booted feet and shoving of men blocking the light. In my gasping, my breath has caught in my throat, and, caught helpless under the force of my coughing, I curl upon myself. _Ai! _ I shake so I have not the strength to push myself up from the ground. A booted foot comes down upon my hand and I cry out at the suddenness of the pain.

"Here, my lady."

An arm grabs me about the middle and attempts to help me to my feet. And he would have but for the buffeting Master Herdir receives as a man trips backwards o'er him and tumbles over us. Knocked from his feet to sprawling upon me, he can then do naught but cover me with his own body.

Scrambling to his knees, "I got ye," he says. He curls himself about me and tucks my arms and head beneath his chin. There he smells strongly of pine pitch and mold and breathes heavily upon me as he squeezes us into as tight of a ball as he can manage.

Feet trample the ground about us. "Move back, I tell you!" "You there, grab that man and hold him fast!"

I can see naught but the shifting of light and dark as the shadows of men slip o'er us and Master Herdir chances a glance about. I am unsure should I wish to see more, as all I can hear are the shouts and thud of fist and crack of wooden cudgel upon the bodies of the Dúnedain, and Master Herdir's grunt when somewhat catches upon him.

"Halt you now!"

And then there is but one shadow that falls upon us and clear I hear Master Bachor's voice ringing out.

"Gworon, I swear on the last light of Aman I will lay you low myself with naught but my own fists should you not step back and cease your brawling."

I hear little after that until Master Herdir loosens his hold upon me. He sits back on his heels, breathing heavily and wiping at his brow with his arm. Blood from my face stains the breast of his tunic. Above us stands Master Bachor. At some point Ploughman Gworon had seized Master Herdir's cudgel. There he stands and behind him other men, shifting upon their feet and, it seems, for the keenness with which they eye Master Bachor's fists, the other Elders, and the line of their pledgeholders, they seem not fully convinced to give way.

"You have lost your cap, Master Herdir," I say.

Herdir startles into looking at me oddly, as had I said somewhat untoward, but then he lurches to his feet and reaches a hand down. "Here now, my lady, quickly. You get yourself to Ranger Saer up there at the top of the stairs while ye have the chance of it."

Once I am aloft, Master Herdir steps to stand at Bachor's left heel, for Gworon's grip shifts upon the cudgel as were he in no hurry to surrender it.

"I said move back," says Bachor, his voice as steel.

But Gworon's grip tightens upon the cudgel and he shifts his weight as were he coiling to leap. Ere I know what I am about, I have ducked between the men at Master Bachor's back, reaching for the cudgel as Gworon raises it. Without a word, Bachor strikes swiftly, his fist breaking upon Gworon's jaw as a hammer upon the smith's anvil. Men at my back surge forward and I can tell naught for the jostling of elbows and grunting of men. It seems I am not alone in my thoughts, for other hands have joined mine in clutching the cudgel and between us we twist it from Gworon's loosening grip. When it is done, the men about Master Gworon are pushed back and he, himself, lays with Master Herdir beneath him, caught with the reeve's arms in a tight hold about his head and neck where he has little leverage to move.

"Man of the people of the Angle, are you?" spits Master Gworon at Bachor, straining against the arms that hold him. "You are a pretender and a cheat as always. _Thou art naught but a slit-lapping tool of the House._"

At this, Master Herdir tightens his grip and digs his heels in the dirt so Gworon's attempts to throw him off are to no effect.

"_Ai!_ Gworon," Master Bachor says, shaking his hand, "Give it up. You have been a fool and an ass since ere our mothers put us in pants!"

"Enough of this," I say.

The men halt and look upon me, for a fine sight I must be. For, in the way of wounds upon the scalp, blood yet trickles from the cut upon my brow and slides down upon my cheek and neck. I push strands of hair from my eyes where they have been pulled from my scarf and step between Bachor and Gworon.

"Let him up, Master Herdir."

I am unsure whose look is more incredulous, Master Herdir or Ploughman Gworon's.

"As you wish, my lady," says Herdir through teeth tightened by his effort, "but would you not want his blood to cool a little first?"

"It is cool enough. Come. I have somewhat to show you, Master Gworon. I think you shall want to see it."

His look improves little and his glance upon the Elders and their pledgeholders about him is a leery one, but, when Herdir loosens his grip, he shakes off the man's hands and rises.

"Come with me," I say and lift my hand to urge him to the foot of the granary stairs ahead of me.

"You as well, Master Fimon," I say, raising my voice. Though I cannot see the man, I trust that should he not hear me, the message will be passed swiftly to him. "And any others of you who are chiefs of the pledge or hold the oaths and care of others."

Men bend to pick up caps and dropped tools, and there is much wiping at blood and sweat, sour looks, and shoving quickly stilled at the threat of another bludgeoning, but little comment as they allow us through. Master Herdir takes the cudgel I hand to him as I pass, and he and Master Bachor follow close behind.

The barrel Master Herdir had carried from the granary lies upon its side, the lid cracked from its fall where he dropped it in his haste. I yank at the lid and the seed within pours out upon the ground. There I take a great clodding handful of it so that clumps of rotted stuff spills from between my fingers.

"Can you not smell it?" I say, and, in truth, it seems they can for the scattered sounds of dismay and disgust that arise from the men that ring the toft. There they strain over their neighbor's shoulders to get a clearer view.

"Who would you have eat this? Come, have some, Master Fimon. It is yours if you would but take a taste of it."

I hold it close where Master Fimon can do naught but get a good look upon it. He says naught, but his face falls grim and closed.

"You? Master Gworon?" I ask and thrust my hand at him. He glares at me as were it clear I mean only to make a fool of him.

"No? Then mayhap you are not desperate enough. But you know those who are, do you not, Master Fimon? Why not take it to them?"

"I am not such a man, my lady," he says.

"I am glad to hear it, Master Fimon." I back away to the barrel where I drop the rotted grain to splatter within. "Neither am I."

I scrape my hand against the barrel's open lip to rid myself of the slime on my skin.

"What shall happen to the apportioning of grain that is left?" I hear. To my surprise, 'tis Master Gworon who speaks. Though Bachor continues to glower at him, he thrusts his chin at me. "How will we know it fairly given out?"

"Because you and I shall review what is left and account for its distribution, Master Gworon," I say without looking upon him. I have got the worst of the rot and ruined grain off, though I cannot rid myself of the feel of it. I dare not touch aught else and so my hand dangles at my side. I care not what he responds. And so, when I am met with silence, I do not prompt him for a response or censure his insistent lapses in respect in speaking to me as he has.

"Now, stand you back and let Master Herdir and his men do their work," I say, and, after a moment's hesitation, they shuffle back a little. "They take no pleasure in it, nor do I take any in the ordering of it."

"Master Bachor!" I call, only to find the man not far from my elbow. "Take Master Fimon and the rest of your chiefs here into the granary so they may see the damage for themselves."

"Aye, I think that a good idea," I hear on the far end of the granary. There Elder Tanaes limps toward me upon his bad leg. He has cracked his crutch upon somewhat so it cannot bear his weight. "You first, Bachor," he says. "Gworon, go join Elder Lorn there. You will have your turn."

The smell of pine wafts from the open door to the granary where Master Herdir and his men applied pitch within and pour oil upon the floor and casks. Men have filed silently up and down the stairs in groups of a few at a time, and soon shall be done. Much of them, since then, have drifted on to other pursuits, though there are those who yet linger, waiting, I think, to watch the granary and its contents burn.

Master Herdir has found scraps of cloths among his things. They are not the cleanest of linens I have seen, but with one I scrubbed at my hand and with the other he wiped the worst of the blood away as I sat back upon the edge of his cart, and now wrings it out in the water from his leather bottle.

"Can you get word to Mistress Linnadis with none marking it, Master Herdir?"

"Aye, my lady," he says and, making a pad of the linen, pats at the cut upon my brow. "Her husband Bronon and his brother are back from their foraging. He owes me days' work. There'd be none who would think aught of it should I call on him."

"Good," I say, keeping my voice low. "Tell her I have need to take up her offer and ask her to make plea for aid to the house of Elder Maurus soon after the midday meal. Should you be so kind, I shall also need to speak with Mistress Pelara ere then. And when that is done, send to the houses of Elders Tanaes, Landir, Fuller, and Maurus. Gather them to our lord's hall after the even's meal; just them, and only them. Do you understand? Do it quietly and do what you can to keep their arrivals unmarked."

"Aye, my lady. I understand." He nods sharply. With great care, he attends to the cloth he presses upon my brow, frowning. He licks at his lips. He chances a glance to where Bachor and Fimon are deep in conference at the far side of the shed, ere speaking low. "Not Elder Lorn, neither?"

"No."

He pats at my skin, making much of checking should the cut have stopped bleeding. He does not speak for a little, but he need not, for I can all but see him reviewing his lists of men and the charges he put into their hands.

"Should you wish it, then, my lady," he says. "I shall see to it and none shall know the better.

"There," he says with a final pat. "I think, my lady, that will do for now." He peers at me and flaps the cloth above the cut to encourage its drying. "It looks worse than it is, in truth, as these things go. I doubt it will trouble ye much a few days hence."

"_My thanks to thee,_ Master Herdir," I say, "for this and your many kindnesses today."

At this, his glance comes quick upon me as he pours more water upon the cloth to rinse it clear ere he wrings it dry. His glance is as quickly gone and, could I credit it, a blush of pink rises upon his cheek.

"Ah, my lady, think naught on it," he says and sniffs, clearing his throat ere he scratches at the back of his head. "'Twas naught any man of yours should not have done."

His observation could not have been better timed, for Ranger Saer, done with escorting the Elders and their chiefs in and out of the granary, has come upon us where I lean against Master Herdir's cart.

"Should you give me a moment more, my lady," Master Herdir says and tucks away his bottle and rags amongst his things beneath his seat, "I will leave my lads with instruction and get you home, eh?"

"Aye, Master Herdir."

I grab Saer by the seam of his coat at his shoulder as I rise under pretext of needing his strength as a prop and turn his back to the folk where I can speak to him unseen.

"In all of this that occurred, Ranger Saer," I ask, "what kept you from joining the Elders of your Council and the House to which you are sworn in enforcing your lord's peace?"

"My lady commanded I guard the granary door," he says and for a full moment I know not what to say.

I think mayhap he is glad my tongued weighed down with my misgivings, for there is naught upon his face that gives any hint as to his thoughts but that he might wish this interview over.

"Should there be aught else my lady wishes –"

"Who threw that stone?"

He glances back at the men gathered about the granary and licks his lips. I am unsure what he searches for that he could not see afore. Surely he does not need me to explain.

"I know not, my lady."

"You do not know?"

It strains credulity, aye, to the point of breaking, his answer does, for he stood a good half a man's height o'er every head in the crowd from his vantagepoint upon the top of the granary stairs. The sullen tone he gives them his words do not help his cause should he wish me to put much faith in them.

"There was much confusion, my lady," he says. "Should you like, my lady, I could ask the men should any of them have seen aught."

"I think not," I say and let go of his shoulder. I doubt not my look is grim, for a defiant look has crept upon the set of his eyes and mouth. "Your sword, Ranger Saer."

"My lady?" He starts and stares at me, dumfounded.

"Your sword," I say and hold out my hand. For the weapon is not his and only loaned to him upon the condition of his continued service as my lord's man.

His hands make short work of unbuckling his belt as he rips at the leather. He says naught, and his face is bowed o'er his work. But I can hear his breathing coming in sharp bursts from here. When done and the leather wrapped around its sheath, he holds it up.

His face reddened and eyes hard, he says, "Please you, my lady, to take this."

"Report to your captain," I say and turn from him and give him no more of my time.

It is heavier than I had thought and I must put my weight behind it to toss it into the back of Master Herdir's cart. There the buckles of its hangers clank against the wicker bottom of the cart.

When I turn back, it is to find Master Bachor and his keen gaze upon me.

"Are your men satisfied?" I ask and he nods.

Master Herdir strides to us, banging the torn grass and dirt from his cap upon his knees. "Begging your pardon, my lady, are you ready?"

"Aye, Master Herdir. Let us go!"

He touches his fingers briefly to his brow as he passes and nods. "Aye, my lady, gladly!"

"My lady," Bachor says, "might I beg a ride?"

"I think Master Tanaes might be more in need of one than you, do you not think?"

"Mayhap, but he intends to stay and see it through. I, on the other hand, have urgent business at home."

"And would wish to talk, I would think."

"That, too," he admits readily.

_Ai!_ I had hoped to avoid this. Mayhap he knew that as well.

"Very well, Master Bachor, let us see what use you can make of the time."

For want of a stool or other aid, he laces his fingers together and offers them for my foot. Together, him lifting and me grabbing onto the pole at the end of the cart and pulling, I settle onto its edge and he leaps up to join me there. Soon, Master Herdir clicks at his piebald mare and we are underway. The track has been wet for far too long and carts and feet have worn grooves into the mud, and so the going is aught but smooth. For a long moment, we do little but hang onto the wicker-work and sway with the cart's movements.

Once we are onto a cleaner path, Master Bachor asks, "How fares your head?" peering at my brow.

I do not touch it, though the impulse to do so is strong. "It stings."

"I heard what was said," he says. "You think it aimed apurpose.?"

"Do you truly need to ask to know the answer?" I ask, my voice sharpening. "You swore you had them under your say and placated."

For indeed he had. Oddly enough, those of the Angle most opposed to the wandering clans' flight hither had found solace among his oathmen. Mayhap their distrust of the House o'ercame their dislike for the color of Master Bachor's skin.

"Strange bedfellows you keep," say I but he does naught but sigh, shrugging and shaking his head.

"Elder Bachor," I say but he throws up his hands as were he warding away any further ire.

"I shall see to it."

"See that you do!"

The silence between us lengthens until we must grab upon the supports of a sudden. Master Herdir's mare puts herself to some effort to pull the cart through a trough of mud and we jerk free. Bachor grabs upon me to steady me but then winces at the pain this causes him. He shakes his hand and rubs at the knuckles.

How fares your hand?" I ask.

He snorts in response. "'Tis naught. I should not let him provoke me," he says with some regret.

"Do not lie to either me or yourself," I say. "You have wished to pummel Gworon since that day at the harvest when he grabbed Laenor."

"Then I should thank him for the excuse!" He then chuckles. "Well do I remember it. She may have done somewhat to earn it, but, natheless, you lashed him about the head and shoulders with the edge of her winnowing basket until it was in tatters. 'Twas then I knew I had best court you as well as Laenor, else I would have small chance of marrying her.

"Nay," he says when I do not answer or smile upon him. He speaks low so I scarce can make out what he says o'er the creaking of the cart. "'Twas ere even that, in truth. He'd single out Einiond for his ire when it had had little effect upon me, when we were boys."

I recall little of it, so young was I then, but for the times Bachor would sit in the shade between the wall and steps of their father's granary. There he would talk to his brother until, calmed, Einiond would emerge disheveled and tear-stained from the cool shadows beneath the raised shed. From the distance of the years, I am unsure now what to make of those times Gworon set himself against us and we against him.

Bachor snorts softly, breaking my thoughts. "'_Slit-lapping tool_.' I must tell Matilde. A true man of the North is unafraid to get his face wet. She will be greatly entertained."

I know he might wish me to share in his amusement, but I find I cannot. In truth, I feel little, but watch as the low, pale sky passes overhead and cling to the wicker-work of the cart so that its jostling does not throw me to the stones o'er which we pass.

"You do not put great weight on his words, my lady, surely?" He peers at me from close quarters and the wheel beneath him rises and falls over a stone so that his shoulder bumps into mine. "'Twas not he who crippled the granaries. That was skillfully done and with forethought. He may yet lead them to petty mischief, but he has little wit for aught else."

"Think you so?"

"Aye, 'tis they who did this we should be addressing, not putting Gworon in a place of authority. Else we will not have little we can save, but naught at all."

"He may make poor company, but it would be best to have him there were he can satisfy himself, would it not?"

Bachor snorts softly. "Should he make himself available to you."

"And yet I must give him the opportunity. He may yet avail himself of it and prove to be more than our childhoods would have us decree him."

"Should you be determined, then, my lady, but make sure he is not alone. Bring someone of his acquaintance with you. Or take Fimon, should you be willing."

"You think Gworon a danger to me?"

"Nay, my lady, but his version of the truth may differ greatly from yours."

At this we fall silent for a little and stare down the path we have taken. Smoke rises from the edge of the field behind, billowing thicker e'en as we watch.

Bachor looks at the cut upon my brow for a moment ere speaking.

"Forgive me, my lady, but Halbarad sends those who are hardened men into greater danger, does he not?"

I do not answer. His is not the defense of the lands outside the Angle.

"And what would our lord esteem so highly he would leave the Angle, much less his wife, so thinly guarded by these youths in such times?

"Oh, I have no doubt you will not tell me," he goes on when I turn a flat look to him, "but I must wonder should even you know where they go and why. And why you continue to put yourself in danger to protect them. I have known you to be loyal, my lady, but not blind."

"I am not blind."

"Then will you not check yourself? You press harder than you have the power to back with force. Today, it was Gworon who showed little respect for your voice. Tomorrow?" He pulls a wry face and shrugs.

I tire swiftly of the Master's probing. Any answer I give him will no doubt lead to more questions and conjecture on his part and I would not have him delve too deeply into my thoughts, not now, not today.

"Can you not beg Halbarad to assign you a man with more experience? Ranger Haldren would give you a stronger hand in these matters, indeed. Had you him behind you this would ne'er happened today."

"You have your own troubles with the folk under your care, Master Bachor. Leave mine to me."

He huffs a quick breath. "My troubles. And what troubles would these be, my lady?"

"I confess I am not surprised you must use the weight of your fists to reinforce your will in these matters, Master Bachor. In truth, I am surprised your oathmen still give your words credence at all. I would have thought their patience with your inaction at an end by now."

"My lady, I treat those under my care very well. They may not have all they might wish, but they have what they need."

"Indeed."

Master Herdir has drawn his mare to a bumping stop and here we pause. Either Master Bachor must accompany me to my lord's house or he must alight and make his way to his own home.

When I have no other response for him, he lifts himself from the edge of the cart and drops the distance to the path over which our feet have dangled.

He turns to make his farewell, but I have somewhat to say to him instead.

"Have a care where your next steps take you, Bachor, you tread a treacherous path.

His eyes narrow upon me. "Are you threatening me, my lady?"

I laugh, though flat and bitter is the sound. "Nay, Master Bachor. I believe what you say. You and your folk shall ever make do, no matter what action I take, and it will pacify your oathmen, until it doesn't."

"What do you mean?" he demands.

"Tell me, Bachor! What shall you say when we learn that none of the granaries to be burned are held by your oathmen?" ask I. "'Miracles and mercy of the Valar!' You and yours alone have been preserved."

"Quit with your riddles!" He is now well and truly angry. He does not shout, but it is a near thing. "I care not for your stories. I never have. I am not some pet you can dangle the tease of a string afore and take delight in my pouncing upon it. Either speak plainly or cease casting your aspersions."

"Master Bachor, you are no threat. You wish no harm upon me. I need none of my lord's men to guard me against you and yours."

"_What is this foolishness? Did I not stand in thy defense not moments ago? Did that mean naught to thee?_"

"You need me," I say, ignoring his protests. "For with one hand you use me as a distraction, a threat of what could happen to them should your oathmen fail to bind themselves to you, while with the other you offer me pity and the blandishments of remembrance and flirtation."

"You think I am behind the assaults upon our granaries?" A swift look of fury and abhorrence spasms across his face. "That I am such a man who would do this thing, bring down suffering upon our folk. For what?"

"Either you have done it, or you have turned a blind eye to those beneath your oath who would do it for your benefit," I insist, my voice low and hard. "You would parade the suffering of the Angle afore your oathmen and encourage their bitterness against the House. For with each drop of misery and death they may pass onto a neighbor, they seek out your protection, and your power over them increases."

"You are mad!" For a man of wit and substance as he is, it seems he can think of no other words to plead his cause. Instead, he stares at me as could he not believe what I have unleashed upon him.

"Look to your own house, Bachor. I need not the protection of your spies, your pity, nor the flattery of your pretense at concern. Are not the majority of men who guard and check the granaries your oathmen? The men responsible for this are among those loyal to you. I recommend you find them ere I do."

"Drive on!" I command Master Herdir and the cart pulls away with a jolt. I clutch at the post for fear of losing my seat, for I am weary, and cold, and my arm and body shake with a fine tremor I cannot still.

I do not look upon the Elder, but rummage in the bottom of the cart behind me for my wrap for the remainder of my journey. Should Master Bachor have said somewhat, it is lost in the clatter of wheels and rattle of stones and my refusal to hear it.

~oOo~

AN: I am going to need to beg your forbearance, dear readers.

I had planned to post three chapters this week, but I'm afraid work has been a hard grind lately, so I've not had much energy level over for writing. I plan on tackling Chapter 51's issues this weekend, so you'll have the other two chapters next Friday.


	52. Chapter 51

~ Chapter 51 ~

"_Denethor started as one waking from a trance, and the flame died in his eyes, and he wept; and he said: 'Do not take my son from me! He calls for me.'_

'_He calls,' said Gandalf, 'but you cannot come to him yet. For he must seek healing on the threshold of death, and maybe find it not. Whereas your part is to go out to the battle of your City, where maybe death awaits you. This you know in your heart.'_

'_He will not wake again,' said Denethor. 'Battle is vain. Why should we wish to live longer? Why should we not go to death side by side?'_

'_Authority is not given to you, Steward of Gondor, to order the hour of your death,' answered Gandalf."_

ROTK: The Siege of Gondor

~oOo~

_~ TA 3017, 1__st__ day of Narquelië: In all, one third total of grain stored upon the Angle lost to the rot. May the Valar have pity on us._

~oOo~

It has turned cold o'er the night.

Frost painted the dawn's touch upon the pasture in ghostly colors upon our rising. Though the sun rises to lay the shadow of my lord's house upon us, still but softly does the meadow rise behind our backs. Light and shadow play upon the folk gathering upon my lord's toft for the scudding of clouds overhead. Steadily they join us there; the men of the jury, Elder Tanaes the Head of the Council, Halbarad as my lord's kin and captain of his Rangers, and I, sitting in my lord's chair, awaiting them.

Here we wrap ourselves warmly, for the wind, the pitiless herald of winter, rides swiftly o'er the meadows and rattles the dark leaves in the branches overhead. Winter awaits at the rim of the Wild and breathes upon us, and we are eager to finish all business ere it comes to keep us company.

My hand aches where I cradle it in my lap. The pain had not made itself known until I was home and rested a little after the noon meal, so weary had I been. Mistress Nesta declared the bones not broke, but wrapped my hand in cloths cooled with water from the garden well and a poultice she brought with her, and prescribed rest for it.

Elder Tanaes leans against the drystone wall of my lord's pasture, propping himself upright with his borrowed staff. There he husbands his strength, his breathing loud enough to be heard faintly from where I sit. I doubt not his night a restless one and he already weary himself from the day.

Most oft, there is much merriment and gossip ere the Angle takes up the business of the hallmoot, and children run and make mischief about the knees of their elders. But there is little of that today. Instead, if there is speech, it is quietly spoken and quickly stilled.

Soon, such Elders as do not sit with the jury stand scattered about the toft, with their pledgeholders, oathmen, and families gathered about them. Others, too, with no pledge to claim them stand there, but many have found their way to clusters made of ties of family and clans about their chosen _híril_ and _hîr_, a thing new to the Angle.

Elder Maurus' oathmen cluster about Mistress Pelara and all of her kin and friends, as many as she could muster to stand with her. There with them, too, stands Mistress Nesta and her folk, and I must wonder who tends to the sick, so many of them have traveled hither. I suppose I should not be surprised. They would have the most intimate knowledge of the aftermath of the issues at hand, and would wish their voices heard.

Elder Maurus has dragged himself from beneath his bed's covers, though it seems he brought most of them with him so he may still be well-wrapped in their wool. He clutches the head of his staff and peers out at the folk from where he sits upon a bench with the jury beneath the great oak.

Elder Bachor stands in his favored place upon the far edge of the toft, with more of the wandering folk about him then I can recall from afore. Whatever their quarrels, Master Fimon stands nearby amidst his fellow chiefs of the pledge. So, mayhap, 'twas not he who crippled the granaries. Should any of the other men beholden to Master Bachor have fled o'er the night, I cannot tell and am hard put to marshal my thoughts to worry at it.

Master Bachor was much occupied after we spoke in Master Herdir's cart, or so I have heard said. Well into the night, he traveled from house to house of those whose oaths he held. I know not what he found, other than the rumors of my wrath whispered amidst speculations as to Halbarad's orders.

Some say our lord's kin called for the Rangers to return to the Angle. There he would set them upon its folk until they offered up the men who had assaulted the granaries. Some say Halbarad has already discovered who they are and recalled Ranger Haldren to see to what the Lady willed of their fate. These tales I know, for I had the telling of them and set them to Mistress Linnadis to repeat. Should Bachor have found somewhat else, I care not, and have not asked.

Elder Tanaes' voice is but a distant sound. He calls for the review of the pledge and the men move upon the toft.

_Ai._ Should I ne'er eat another pea in my life, I shall count myself blessed. I can no longer abide the taste of them. Should I have my choice, I think I shall ne'er plant a field of the foul things again.

I had naught but pease to offer Mistress Pelara for yesterday's midday meal, and I shall have little else but them to prepare for today. I had left them for the last, though it seemed now to no great purpose.

Halbarad had joined us. Our planning done, the mistress and I, and he done with his shouting, we had eaten in silence. For Halbarad had taken one look at the sword I bore and the wound upon my face when I returned from the granary, and stormed from the hall.

He said little over our meal, but seemed to be deep in thought. 'Twas not until the meal was done, did he speak.

"Forgive me, my lady," he had said, toying with the spoon in his empty bowl. "I should have listened more closely to your concerns."

I startle alert at the sudden hush and faces turned to me. The men upon the toft have come to a stillness, Master Tanaes done with the call to the pledge and the men done raising their voices in answer.

I push myself to standing.

"Aye, in my lord's place, I do," I say. "I, Nienelen, wife to Aragorn, Lady of the Dúnedain, speak as my lord commands. I accept your pledge and shall uphold your rights and hold you to your responsibilities as ever have my lord's fathers, the Lords of the Dúnedain, the Kings of Arnor, and the Faithful of Númenor."

I reach behind me and ease my body to my lord's chair, for Halbarad has carried it from the hall and set it under the great oak that spreads o'er the pasture walls. There he stands behind me, as silent and steadfast as the tree under which we are set.

So, that is done.

I clear my throat and swallow to suppress the resulting itch in my throat. Ah, but I hope I shall not be much called upon to rise from my seat ere the real work of the hallmoot begins.

Elder Tanaes looks to me, but I do not speak nor in any way urge him on. He knows what I want, without any need for me to say it. Or, rather, he knows what I would have him do, and that is enough. And so, he calls to the folk of the Angle.

"We come now to the concerns of the Angle," he begins and, wiping at his brow, draws a great breath to be heard the better by those upon the far fringes of the crowd. "Ere we hear claim of the breaking of our lord's law and the Angle's custom, we have need for the people to consider a grave matter. 'Tis a bitter thing, but you have heard rumor of the waste that is now a portion our harvest. It is true, this thing."

There is little surprise to be seen among the folk of the Angle, though, still, a muttering arises upon the toft.

Master Tanaes coughs, twisting aside ere he continues.

"Attend ye, now!" he calls and they quiet a little. "The Council wishes to put afore you the question of rationing what we have left of this year's harvest amongst all our folk."

At this, voices rise among the crowd, though no one is louder than the other and I cannot make out their words. The folk stir, shifting upon their feet and straining to look upon us and each other. A shuffling upon the far end of the toft draws the eye. I do not look at it.

"I did not agree to this!"

Ah. I had but to dangle the string.

Good. I am ready.

I release a slow breath and ease my back to my lord's chair, my hands resting in my lap. The leather of Halbarad's long vest creaks behind me, but he says naught, nor does he move more than the crossing his arms and shifting upon his feet.

Master Bachor strides to the middle of the open lawn between jury and the folk of the Angle, fury writ large upon his face. Even ere Elder Tanaes was done, had he begun to push his way through the crowd where he had stood in claim of his oathmen's pledge.

"Is it not the custom of the charter such things should be put afore the Council first, Tanaes?" he demands once he comes to a halt.

Ah, he may address the head of the Council, but he bears his gaze full upon me. He knows I am the author of this thing. There could be no other. Were he not in full view of the Angle, I think we would hear harsher words from him. They crowd behind his stiffened jaw.

"So we did," says Elder Tanaes. "But you were not there to know of it."

At this, Master Bachor lets loose a sharp huff of laughter and looks upon Tanaes and I with much bitterness.

"As per the Angle's charter," I say, "a majority of the Council attended and thus it was decided, Elder Bachor."

"You did not have the votes for it, my lady, when last this matter was raised," Bachor says, jerking his chin my direction, "even should I not have attended."

"As is allowed in times of great strife, the Lady has declared the Angle's charter void and the lord's law in precedence," says Tanaes from where he leans heavily upon his staff.

"Indeed."

Bachor's arms have come to wrap about themselves at his breast and he nods, turning away and sparing me but a fleeting glance. Should I credit it, for the sudden light that shines upon them, it would seem that tears start up in his eyes.

"No wonder it is, then, you did not wish me there," he says.

"I do not order your comings and goings, Elder Bachor."

He spits his next words at me. "It seems your invitation went astray, my lady."

"I would hear your complaints, but I am afraid they are ill-timed. The Council has voted. The matter is decided. I cannot help should you have been too otherwise occupied to attend to it."

At this, he says naught, but a pained look flashes upon his face ere his eyes narrow upon me. It is as though the gears of his mind slowly click into place as I watch.

"Is that your price to withdraw the vote, my lady?"

"Have you discovered the men who damaged the granaries?"

He hesitates, his eyes darting to the gathering of folk.

I examine his face, wondering should he truly think I wish the men hauled from the crowd so I might dispense swift justice upon them. And swift it would need to be, for, given the events of yestermorn, I cannot vouch for the temper of the folk of the Angle and know not if the men would survive their journey through their ranks.

"Yes," he says.

And when I rise from my lord's chair, he goes on, "I am prepared to name them, should we come to terms. But not here!"

"Calm yourself, Elder," I say, raising my voice. "You have naught I wish. I have no need to barter for what is already mine.

"Your lord's law is in precedence," I go on, making my way to him where he stands. "Should I wish it, I could bid my lord's men seize any and all fruits of our harvest. I have but to order it, and under the threat of their swords they could empty every granary, every storehouse, every root cellar, and every pantry and you would have no recourse."

I stab at the grounds with my finger. "I could command it be piled here upon my lord's field afore you," I say, coming to a halt. "And should I deem it necessary for the good of the Dúnedain, I would be within my rights to burn it all."

I do not know what he expected from me, but it is not this. For he has remained still and silent, tense with waiting. Now I have drawn near, his hand comes upon my wrist. There he pulls me in close and speaks low.

"_I beseech thee, do not do this, _Nienelen," he says, watching me intently, pity in his look. "It need not come to this. Do not force my hand."

"Oh, Bachor," I say and sigh ere I am caught up with laughter. "What do you think we are about today?"

He stares at me as had I gone mad, but it only makes me laugh the louder.

"What is it you wished?" I ask between bouts of strained mirth. "Had you thought you could keep the threat to unseat me as a tool for negotiation? To keep it to hushed conversations behind doors that are closed, and you could use it force me to step down so I might preserve the dignity of the House and retreat to a safe position? You thought you could thrust the House from its seat and keep it bloodless?"

I take a step back but hold his eye and speak so that any who might wish could hear. "What is it you wished? To call a vote of your own?"

"Aye," I say. "Let us do that, then. Let us call a vote." I wrench my arm from his grip and turn my back to him.

Confusion arises from the men of the jury, their voices loud and ringing against the meadow behind us. I heed them not as I pass. Loudest comes Elder Lorn. I cannot discern his words for the shouting of the men about him, but his face is dark with shock. 'Tis then comes the sharp crack of the head of Maurus' cane upon the wood of the bench upon which he sits. High he raises it and brings it down again and again upon the wooden bench with a force belied by the trembling of his arm. He does not cease until all is silence about him.

"Our lord's law is in precedence," he says and, gasping for breath for the effort it took him to gain their attention, paws at his woolen wraps in attempt to draw them about himself again. "Should the Lady wish to call a vote against the House, she has the right to do so without our consent or consultation."

"Give me your sword," I say. For I look neither upon Elder Maurus, the jury, nor Bachor.

No man comes armed to the hallmoot but he who stands in the place of captain of the Rangers, he who would guard his lord's wife and do her will in his place.

"Are you not your lord's man?" ask I. "Your sword, Ranger of the North."

Halbarad must trade looks with Bachor, for so flicks his gaze o'er my shoulder there. I doubt not Bachor pleads with Halbarad to deny me and, indeed, I see it in the Ranger's face. For on it I see not the fear and wrath I had thought I would find, but sorrow. It darkens his eyes as they look upon me.

I am sure Halbarad unsure of my wisdom in disarming him at such a moment. It stiffens the skin beneath his eyes and the sinews of his jaw. But, without word and without change of expression, my lord's kin loosens his sword from its housing, and meeting my eyes steadily as he slides it free, offers its hilt.

I have not unlearned the strength I no longer have and, when he releases it, I must clutch at it to keep the weapon from falling onto the turf.

I approach, albeit slowly. Master Bachor watches, his face grim and a muscle upon his cheek ticking. It seems he does all he can to not look upon the blade I hold.

"Nienelen," he starts, his voice low so not to be heard beyond where he and I stand. "I had no hand in what we lost of our harvest nor would I seek the blood of the House. Surely, you do not think so ill of me as that -"

"I have remained silent and given you your chance to speak unrestrained," I say, and my voice comes back to me from where it echoes against stone and the folk of the Angle, "and you have taken full advantage of it. And I have listened, as is your right to demand of me. You have had your chance to make your case afore the Angle and afore your lord's House, as is your right. Now it is mine."

Bachor's eyes flick to the sharp edge of the weapon I hold, and, for a moment, I halt. It had not occurred to me he might think I would use it upon him.

"Should you allot the portions as you see fit," I say, raising my voice again, "you must tell me first who we should let starve so I might know how to go about it."

So shocked I think he is, Bachor has naught to say. And so I look upon the Dúnedain of the North and steadily they return my regard. I hear the soft sounds of weeping quickly stilled.

"Or, better yet, it does seem more merciful to do the deed all at once." I thrust the sword at Bachor, hilt first. "Here, take you this and use it upon whomsoever you will."

He shakes his head, and, taking a step to come close where he had fallen back, approaches me with his hands raised. "My lady, were your husband here, I would have no cause-"

"My husband is not here!" I shout and he falls still, so startled he seems at my anger.

"I am!" I beat my breast with my fist.

"And it is I who have made the choice that leads us here. And now. Now? So shall you. You cannot have it both ways; the power to lead and think you can shuffle the weight of its cost onto another. You must choose. Should you have your way, either you must remove me as your impediment so we may vote to ration what we have left among us all, or you must choose those of the Angle who shall be marked for death.

"So, tell me, Elder Bachor, who do you wish to bring death to first?"

He does not answer. My hand shakes where I yet hold out the sword to him and I must let the tip rest upon the ground or lose my grip.

"Do you fear to share Master Sereg's fate?" I ask, but he remains silent and unsettled, staring at me as were he waiting for me to make sense so he might then know how to proceed. "Hear now the judgment of the House of Isildur: Bachor son of Haradon is to be held innocent of the death of Nienelen, daughter of Melendir and wife to Aragorn, Arathorn's son. His sentence upon this act, as her nearest of kin, is to assume her seat upon the Council and speak for the House. The care of the child Elenir is to be given to his house, until she reaches the age of majority or her father, the lord Aragorn, returns.

"How say you, Bachor?" I ask. "You would then have the daughter you were cheated of so long ago."

It is at this he winces and drops his gaze, unable to look upon me.

"Be easy," I say, and even I am shocked at the bitterness in my voice. "Should you not have the belly for this thing, we shall put it to a vote and the Angle shall decide."

With that, I make my way to the edge of the open toft, stumbling over my skirts, where stand the feet of the folk of the Angle.

My lord's kinsman is tall, standing head and shoulder above all others of the Dúnedain. His sword was crafted for the length his arm, not mine, and so, with its sharpened point hovering o'er my lord's toft, I must lift its hilt to the extremity of my reach above my head ere I plunge it to the soil at my feet. There it stands fast, quivering with the force of the thrust.

I step back.

I must gasp for breath ere speaking.

"Hear me, oh Elders of the Council, jury of the Angle, and Rangers of the North! Your lord's law is in precedence and as the voice of his House this I declare: any man whosoever takes up this sword and does violence to me shall not held liable for the offense. No charges shall be brought; no sentence issued. There shall be no gathering of my lord's men to seek their vengeance upon the folk of the Angle. So, I, Nienelen, daughter of Melendir, Ranger of the North, daughter of Elenir of the clan of the _Mawrim_, wife to our lord and chieftain Aragorn son of Arathorn, and Lady of the Dúnedain do declare."

A rising din and a woman's voice shouts, "No!" I know not who it is and I dare not look.

I shake and my voice is clouded and trembles.

"Who so swears?" I cry, wiping at my brow and raising my voice over the noise. _Ai!_ I am so weary.

A deep voice rings out over the toft. "I swear it!"

'Tis Halbarad who speaks and, for the harsh tones of his voice, he sounds as were he grinding his teeth in attempt to forbear from shouting in warning.

Silence has fallen, and in it, I hear the scattered voices of the Elders. At the first it is Elder Lorn, and then Fuller. Last comes Elder Tanaes, and it seems the words are all but dragged from his throat. All but Bachor speaks.

"This I vow to thee," I shout at the folk of the Angle. "I will give you the very food from my table so that it is bare. I will tend to your beasts and forage to replace what is lost. I will wipe your brow when you are sick and bind the hurts of your wounds. I will dig the furrows for our harvest with naught but my bare hands should need be. I know naught of the arts of war, but, should it come to it, I will take up knife or bow or axe and strike at any man or servant of the Enemy who would dare raise a hand to thee.

"_But I will not lie to thee_!" I shout and blink to clear the blur of light and dark from my eyes.

"There is more suffering to come. And, aye, there are those here in the Angle who could protect you from it, at least for a little. But it is a cheat. As false a promise as any the Deceiver would lay afore you. And what shall come after will exact such a price that you and I, and those who come after us, would beg for death rather than pay it.

I halt, for every eye of the Angle is upon me and I have naught of comfort for any of them.

"I know you suffer," I say. "But so we must. And I cannot tell you why.

"I can but tell you this. I refuse to stand upon the bones of other men to save myself. And ware to any man of the Dúnedain who would think to attempt it for himself."

_Ai! _ I am done. There is naught more to say. I have said it all.

"There are enough of you," I say at the last. "Should you come in a rush, there is naught my lord's kin can do to prevent it. You shall either put your trust in me, or you shall not.

"It is time for you to choose."

And with this, I step away from the edge of the crowd. They will need room and I give it to them.

And so, I turn my back.

Master Bachor stares at naught but me, though he is the only one. Master Maurus presses his lips tight and has bowed his head close to his breast, as had he no desire to see what comes next. Halbarad stands tall with his eyes narrowed and his arms crossed upon his breast. There he, and Master Tanaes and the men of the jury scan the folk of the Angle, their look grim and watchful. Naught catches their eyes.

At first, there is no rush of men; no jostling or shoving. Distantly a child cries and is stilled. Naught but the wind rattling the dying leaves o'er our heads answers my challenge. It is not until I turn my gaze to Master Bachor that it comes. For the sudden rising and fall of his breast and the alarm upon his face, I know he hears it too, the building murmur in the crowd and the shuffling of feet.

And then comes the shouting and the sound of booted feet that halts at the edge of the line of folk.

A look of horror comes upon Bachor's face and he leaps to the edge of the toft.

I know not what he does, but loud a voice is raised behind me.

"Ever have you thought yourselves our better and lorded it over us!"

Of all men who I thought might take up my challenge, 'tis Ploughman Gworon who speaks.

"But I swear the two of you shall see us to our barrows and still argue who should dig our graves," he says. And with that comes the low sound of a grunt from Master Bachor.

"Do it!" I hear Gworon say, "or do not! You may think so little of our suffering that you use it to your own betterment. But at least spare us the insult of your bickering!"

For a long moment, I hear naught else but the rising of the wind in the arms of the great oak.

Master Bachor, himself, comes to a halt once he stands between me and the jury. He stares at the sword in his hands where he holds it with both fists. I doubt he much able to give voice, for he then stares at me much as he had when I stepped from the shadows of the stairs into his hall, with my sister's blood upon my dress.

I do not know his thoughts, though surely they whirl through his head. For it has been many years since I have seen him look so stricken. Though he makes little noise, tears gather at his eyes and he blinks to clear his vision of them. It seems then, he has come to some decision, for he raises his head and surveys the folk gathered about with a grim look ere he lets the blade fall and comes to stand afore me.

"_Ai,_ Nienelen!" he says low. "I do not know for what reason you court your death. I hope what you seek to protect is worth the price you ask of us," he says and pauses, considering me. "But, it seems you are willing to pay the cost yourself. I hope, then, for our sake, and for yours, it is because you believe what you have said, and not because we have lost you to despair."

With that, then, he presses the sword into my hands, but ere he leaves, I have more to say.

"Master Bachor," I say and he stills. "I leave it to you to see to the fate of the men who destroyed the granaries. Do as you see fit. But, should you want my counsel, it is this: bend your considerable gifts to the good of the folk of the Angle, all of them, not just those whose oath you hold, and rid your house of those who have any inclination to use violence to achieve their aims. For, know this, should we e'er again suffer such a loss as was discovered yestermorn, I will hold you to account for it and it is you who shall suffer the sentence. I will take your family's lands and all upon it as property of the House and banish you and yours from any land o'er which my lord holds sway. Should you be found upon them, your life will be forfeit and I shall not regret its loss."

He says naught, nor bows his head nor brings his fingers to his brow in salute, but, with no other word, turns his back and makes his way to where he stood when first the hallmoot began.

When I offer it back, Halbarad does not return his sword to the scabbard that swings from his hip, but holds it in his fist afore him, its point resting lightly upon the ground and its keen edge catching the light as the clouds pass overhead.

'Tis only then I return to my lord's chair. And 'tis only when I have seated myself and can survey the folk of the Angle arrayed afore me that I speak.

"Elder Tanaes?"

"Aye, my lady," I hear and Tanaes limps to the center of the open greensward.

"Does the Council recognize the Angle's vote as against my removal?"

"Aye, it does."

"Then we shall proceed with the vote to ration the remainder of our harvest's yield. Call the count!"

"Aye, my lady!"

The butcher's deep voice carries across the lawn. "Call ye 'yea' should you wish for the House to ration what of the harvest we have amongst us all. Call ye 'nay' should you wish each man to fare on what he has reaped of his own."

I sit upon my lord's chair, with the shadow of his kin behind me. I dare not look to Master Bachor where he stands. I know that look upon his face, though he hides it as best he can, for I ask much of him. He is not alone. I ask much of all of them. But I will hold them to it, each and all of them, an I must.

He does not vote, neither 'yea' nor 'nay,' but after today, I think we shall have little to say to one another Bachor and I. For I have used the very parts of him that are his best against him. The cost is high, but, mayhap, I have bought myself some time.

When the work of the hallmoot is done, the people trail away with little comment and even less joy. I do not move from my lord's chair until the croft is clear of the folk of the Angle. Mayhap 'tis not as my lord would have had it. But the deed is done.

Halbarad's hand comes to rest upon the post of the chair in which I sit.

"Have you done?"

The wind rattles among the leaves above our heads and sends the dark folds of my scarf shivering against my cheek.

"I have."

He comes to stand afore me, and I have but a moment to see his face ere he leans to me, clasping the arms of my lord's chair so the wood creaks. I do not think I have seen him in such a state of wrath as this afore. His eyes bore into me for a moment ere he can speak. He does not raise his voice but speaks in deliberately measured tones.

"Should you e'er think to attempt such a reckless act as this again, I fully expect to be made aware of your intent ere I am forced to witness it."

"And you would not wish to dissuade me from it?"

"I expect I shall make the attempt, but it is on you to convince those you lead of the rightness of it."

"And then what? You hide blades upon your person –"

"Oh, that I have already done. And you may not have marked it, but among the folk of the Angle men stood who are not well known to them, and each bore a weapon should the need arise. Nay, my lady, I would put our best marksmen in the trees, here, there, and there," he says, pointing at the heights of the great oak to our backs, the trees overhanging the sheds, and the window of the solar overlooking the toft. "_And 'ware to the first man who attempted to lay a hand upon thee!_"

"Halbarad," I say and hold out my hand.

"Do not force upon me tales of bloodshed upon your behalf or of my kinsman's wife taken by his folk in sight of his very house. Do not make me the bearer of these tales to Aragorn upon his return. Have not you and I sorrows enough?"

He then refuses to either move or take my hand until I nod.

With that, he clasps me about my wrist, surprised at first at the weight I put on him, but not unwilling. He pulls me from my seat.

"I would carry you, should you wish it."

"No," say I and then laugh. It is a sad sound. "Though I think I shall not make it to the top of the solar steps at this rate."

"Then you may walk to the door, should you wish your pride, and I will carry you up the stairs once we are away from the Angle's eyes."

A reluctance comes upon me I cannot name. I do not wish to go to the solar.

"Should you allow me the use of your settle, Halbarad, I would consider your duty done."

"Come along, then."

He wraps my arm about his waist and, with his own arm beneath my shoulder, together we make our way up the slow rise to the house. I lean heavily upon him. I must make no more progress than were I wading through the deep and swift waters of the river. But Halbarad says naught and simply matches me step for step.

"Do you know what our lord set himself to finding?"

He shrugs, his eyes on the ground. "Aye, and no, equally well. I know but as much as you and no more."

"Aye," I say and then fall silent as we make our slow way. "And did my lord give you instruction to further his plans for it, should he not return?"

"That he did."

"What were they, Halbarad?"

"It matters not, my lady. Should you wish to know, you could ask him yourself, soon enough."

I laugh a little. Should he think otherwise about my lord's return, still Halbarad would never tell me. Aye, well, mayhap he clings to hope after all.

We have reached the wicket that leads into the garden. There the wind moves upon the dry leaves of the plum tree and tosses the heads of blown flowers.

There, Halbarad releases me. "But, should you wish to know, he gave me instructions to follow while he was gone."

"Who did he not?"

A small sound of wry mirth bursts from Halbarad at that. "Aye, well, my lady, for my own part, he told me as it had been I who had chosen you for his wife, 'twas I who was to watch o'er you and yours as were you my own."

Though by the eyes that look upon me with their fond and grave light I know Halbarad wishes me to unburden my heart in return, I do not. I do not wish to speak of the care which my lord lay upon me in his absence.

"_Wilt thou rest thee_, my lady?" I hear asked behind me, for I have turned away for the buttery door and make my way through the garden.

"Aye, Halbarad, only to stop thy pestering." For there is little left to do. I can do naught but pray the spring harvest shall be a good one.

He closes the wicket gate and, with him following along behind me, we put the hallmoot behind us.

~oOo~


	53. Chapter 52

~ Chapter 52 ~

~oOo~

"_So the Company went on their long way, down the wide hurrying waters, borne ever southwards. Bare woods stalked along either bank, and they could not see any glimpse of the lands behind. The breeze died away and the River flowed without a sound. No voice of bird broke the silence. The sun grew misty as the day grew old, until it gleamed in a pale sky like a high white pearl. Then it faded into the West, and dusk came early, followed by a grey and starless night. Far into the dark quiet hours they floated on, guiding their boats under the overhanging shadows of the western woods. Great trees passed by like ghosts, thrusting their twisted thirsty roots through the mist down into the water. It was dreary and cold."_

FOTR: Farewell to Lórien

~oOo~

_~ TA 3018 2__nd__ day of Víressë: Cotters Stevan and Lethril to be sentenced to two weeks foraging and trapping beyond the Methiethiel in punishment for the theft of five marks of Master Tandril's stores of rye and oat. Ploughman Gworon to be sentenced to ten days hard labor of Master Herdir's choosing for the harassment of Master Orthoron's family and the destruction of their shed._

_Elder Bachor has discovered the remaining three men who aided the destruction of the granaries. He recommends banishment of them and those of their near kin who are known to be of the same mind. In Halbarad's absence, Ranger Mathil called to the Council to report on plans for their apprehension. As with the others, their property is forfeit adn to be distributed among the folk of the Angle. As we did with the others, all chiefs of the pledge, híril and hír, and members of the Council to be called to witness the execution of their sentence._

~oOo~

_Ai! _ I am both chill for the cold soil and wet, and yet break to a sweat that burns beneath the touch of the winds that sweep down from the north. The sun rides high behind his shroud of thin clouds. Our inconstant companion these past seasons, he gives us little warmth. The squelch of mud beneath our feet and the slap of our hands upon the wet earth is broken by little but Master Bachor's fitful coughing. Ah! My hands are as blocks of wood.

Dim comes the sounds of our folk at the low end of the spring fields. They have cleared the tail ditches and now take hoes and spades to the ridges and furrows, undamming pools of water beneath which the roots of young seedlings drown. Thin rills of water push all ahead of them as they rush downfield to collect in the ditches. Thither the waterworks wind their way to our south, and there join the Tithecelon from which the water first sprang.

Bachor, breathing heavily, stands, his fine leather coat long abandoned, and the edge of his tunic clinging about his knees for the mud pressed deep into its wool. I think he as miserable as I. Heat blooms upon his cheeks and there he attempts to wipe at his brow with what little clean skin upon his arm he can find.

I saw little of Master Bachor o'er the winter. I know not what justice he meted out, and have not asked. But, whether they grew dismayed at the harm done to the folk of the Angle on his behalf or were angered at his refusal to lead an assault upon the House or he thrust them from his protection, the ranks of those who follow him have thinned. As the days grew cold and we eked out the hours of sun, he kept most to his own hearth, those of his oathmen left to him, and, to my wonderment, that of Master Orthoron and Mistress Istriel. There he oft kept company with their eldest son, Muindir, but I saw them little. True, he attended the Angle's councils and there put forth his votes, but he spoke seldom and looked upon me even less. I had taken salt to the wounds between us. Should the taste of it be bitter, I am left with none to blame but myself.

This month past, the folk of the Angle followed behind the plough and struck at clods of dirt with mattock and hoe. Where once the oxen would bellow and shake their great heads against flies and the halter, they hung their heads for the weary work to which they were set. Thin in frame and number were the oxen left for this spring's ploughing, their ribs plain beneath their skin with their breath. Few survived the wet of summer and fall, for a sickness came upon them. They set upon their pastures and lowed their distress until they dropped to the mud in which they stood. The folk who, for their desperation, dared slaughter them themselves fell quickly ill and died in great pain just as had their beasts.

Where once the people would chant and raise their tools in time with the song, they, too, worked in silence. Had they not the clothes to cover their ribs, I am sure they, too, would be as plainly seen. In the fall we were left to stripping the leaves from the birch tree and making of them a stew for want of better greens to eat. For want of meat, we hunted the small beasts of the forest until we must dare go beyond the bounds of the two rivers to find them. For want of grain, we ground acorns, beetles, and birch bark into our flour. And against greater want to come, I put the seed for this spring's harvest under guard. More than once did Master Herdir's men rely upon their cudgels to keep the Angle's peace.

'Twas as Nesta foretold. From highest to lowest of our folk, 'twas a rare house had not suffered some grief. Had not my lord's kin and his Rangers defied his command and smuggled wines and what they could bear of foodstuffs from the western lands they guarded, we would surely have lost more. For the most part, they obeyed the constraints we put upon the folk's gatherings, though it made for a cold and cheerless winter. Even so, weary of body, our folk had little with which to arm themselves against sickness. Mistress Nesta is hard pressed and I have stood upon our barrows far too oft of late. There I attended each ritual and turned my back to the small mound of stone o'er which the flowering grasses of the meadow begin to crawl.

They are courteous as ever, our folk, and give salute as is proper, but 'tis Ranger Mathil whom they greet warmly, for, after the hallmoot, it is he Halbarad assigned to stand in my shadow. Few greetings am I given upon the barrows I do not issue first. I think I would not have had the heart to continue the practice had not Bachor, after the first thaw, taken to meeting me there, seeming to know when to find me with little effort. There he oft came to stand at my side and eased our entry into the bereaved kin with an offered hand, a story to tell, or an ear to listen.

And so, the thin days of a bitter winter eased into a cold and hungry spring. I spent them most oft working aside the folk upon fields, pastures, ditch gates, sick rooms, and granaries, or sitting in my lord's chair and attending upon every complaint and every trial and meting out sentence of banishment and harsh labor upon their heads. Whither my errands took me, small children dogged my steps, their eyes bright with purpose, only to dart behind hedges or into alleys should I or Mathil turn to them.

'Twas not the most discrete of watches. Indeed, Mathil made much of a game at catching them out. I forbore from chastising him, for he chuckled at the whispering behind us and their startled faces when he turned and leapt at them and sent them scattering set a light in his eyes. Once, I came upon him as he lounged against Master Maurus' wall, waiting to escort me home. He turned an impressed look upon the young lad standing at his feet. There the boy stood afore him, his hands behind his back as had he just given report to his captain.

"A good effort, Tyree," Mathil said with an impressed smile, and the boy's eyes lit with a mischievous pleasure. He hid it quickly, biting at his lip and seeming to find his toes a fascinating subject. "But you forgot our visit to Mistress Tanril at the smithy."

The boy's eyes flashed upon the Ranger of a sudden, his mouth open as were, in his dismay, he about to give protest.

"Still, a worthy effort despite the lapse, and you, my dear lad, are the first to do it. Very well," Mathil said, holding up a bit of hardened honey and hazelnuts to catch the lad's eye ere he tossed it to him. "But now I am forewarned and know to look for you. Should you give me the slip again and, this time, recite it in all detail, it shall earn you two pieces. Remember, tell naught of this to Elder Bachor and you will have double, both his price and mine. Aye?"

"Aye," said the lad and grinned brightly. Catching the sweet tossed to him, he gave me a brief glance ere Mathril ruffled his hair fondly. He scampered away and we soon lost sight of him again.

"How long until Master Bachor learns of your efforts to turn his spies to your own purpose?" I asked.

Mathil shrugged and, with a jerk, lifted his shoulders from the wall upon which he had leaned. "Not long, I would think. 'Tis harmless enough. It is not as if the whole Angle doesn't talk of where we go, as it is." He added with a grin, "But until then, we shall see how long we can best him at his own game."

I know not what price Master Bachor paid the children for their efforts, but it profited him well. For soon after we knew of an attempt at being followed, he would oft chance to wander across my path, knock at the door through which I had entered, or call upon a craftsman with some small business of his own to conclude, and thereby join me in my efforts about the Angle.

The day had not yet fully dawned when I startled at the banging of a fist upon the wood of the great door to my lord's house and raised voices in the hall below. I was not asleep, no matter how mightily I desired rest, but stared at the wood that makes the canopy of my lord's bed as the world out of doors lightened with the approaching sun. Even now I think I could call to mind each spiral of grain and uneven edge of the thin planks above my head for how well and oft I studied them. For, in my dreams, I kept company with the dead, and so, atimes, dreaded my sleep. I will not speak of which of my lord's men bore him down and took blade to Master Sereg, nor the manner of his death. They matter not. 'Twas my hand that took his life, and he spends many nights reminding me of it.

"Take your hands off me, lad. She will have your head should you hinder my news and you know it."

"My lady is not yet awake, Master Herdir."

"She is now."

Nail-studded boots strode quickly across the stones of the hall below. At the sound, Elenir stirred against my side. I closed my eyes and wrestled with my heart to find the will to leave my bed. Wiping at my cheeks, I threw off the covers.

"Lady Nienelen!"

Elenir rolled upon her belly to push herself to sitting from where she had been pressed to me. Already her eyes filled with tears and she crawled to the high side of the bed I had left, calling to me. There she reached out her small hand and clung with the other to the wooden board.

I caught her up to still her crying. She clung to me and tucked her wet face against my neck, whimpering and holding tight to a fistful of my shift.

"What is it, Master Herdir?" I called down the stairs and jostled my infant daughter in my arms.

"My lady, the water has spilled o'er the dams in the night and flooded the spring fields!"

_Ai!_ And the days of ploughing had been so dry. So much for my hopes for the spring harvest. It shall do little to relieve us, now.

"It is time, then. Send your men to call up the Elders. Do not wait for me. I will meet you there."

"Aye, my lady!" With this, his shadow disappeared from the wall at the bottom of the stairs.

"Ranger Aerion?"

"Aye, my lady?" called the youth.

"Send for Ranger Mathil and Elesinda. Quickly now!"

When I set Elenir down amidst the folds of the coverlets upon the bed, she burrowed her face within them and sucked on her fingers, watching closely. I took up the woolen nursing blanket tangled among the bedclothes so I might swaddle my daughter and keep her warm while I dressed, but it was caught on somewhat. Only when I tugged sharply upon its end did it come free. But a careless flick of the wrist and Mistress Berel's gift of molded clay flew from where I had secreted it between mattress and headboard. With a sharp crack it struck the floor and shattered.

There I stood frozen with my wrap dangling from my fist, and a wrath arose within me for which I could not account. I cannot say I had used it much of late. Indeed, I could not recall the last my thoughts grew willful and, were not my lord here to lend the sweetness his touch, I yearned for my own. And yet, rage tightened my fists and I saw naught else but the sharp fragments of stoneware scattered beneath my feet, all else a reddened haze about me.

Ere I know what I was at, I am sitting back upon my heels in the midst of the wreckage, my hands stinging and throat raw. There I looked about me and gasped for breath. For I had snatched up the metal pitcher from where it sat upon the tall chest and, falling to my knees, brought it down upon the shards until they shattered and the fragments bounced off the wall with the force with which I had struck them.

'Twas only when I looked upon her from where I knelt upon the floor, did Elenir begin to cry. She had watched and startled with each crack of metal upon the floor. And now she looked upon me with widened, fearful eyes filled with tears.

_Ai! _What have I done?

I leapt to my feet and rushed to her, dropping the pitcher to clang upon the floor, its dented bottom no longer able to hold it upright. There I took her up and threw the ends of the wrap about her as I held her in my lap.

Oh, _ai! _ Forgive me, _little one_.

There we sat upon the bed, the sideboard cutting into the back of my thighs, and I could only be grateful the hall was empty below stairs and I would not have to explain myself.

~oOo~

Yet again had black clouds sailed o'er our heads from the north. Upon winter, the snow that fell from them lay as a drab blanket and, once warmed by the sun and melted, left behind a gray silt as soot from our fires. And now with the spring, o'er the night they brought with them torrents of rain that flooded the troughs and tore the infant plants from their beds in the ridges. Where e'er it pools, there wafts a faint but foul order. Yavanna help us, I know not what it shall do to the grain and beans that grow of it. Nor what it shall do when we eat them.

"Will the gates hold, do you think, Master Herdir?" I ask, for having soothed and seen my daughter to Elesinda's care, we tramp the northeastern edge of our spring fields where, upon the rise overlooking them, flows the head ditches ripe with water from the Tithecelon. The river water rushes in its bed, dark with the soil it has stirred in its passing and taking branch and leaves and the remnants of baskets and fishing weirs torn from where they were anchored along with it.

"Aye, should we not have more of that rain," he says as we walk along the softened bank.

Ranger Mathil, roused from his own bed in his family's hall, has joined us and keeps several paces back. For the chill and his night of drinking with Ranger Haldren, he has pulled his hood low o'er his face and squints in the early light. Naught but the bright points of his eyes are to be seen. But I doubt not he has done worse than survey muddy fields with even less of his wits than he now possesses, and so I have left him to his curt replies.

"I think it done, for a little, should the pattern hold." I shade my eyes to look about. Ribbons of thin clouds reach from horizon to horizon in the dawn light, the sun splashing pink and gold upon them. "

"Aye," he says, "so my bones tell me, my lady, though we shall have little warmth from the sun."

And indeed, where once clouds seeded with ash came with much comment, now we can mark the change of the weeks upon their arrival. There they shall remain through the day and veil the sun's face. He is sure to set tonight in a blaze as fire leaping from amongst the tops of the trees about the river to our west.

Already, the chiefs of the pledge have rallied and others of our folk, men and women alike, pick their way through the rows of furrow and trough, carrying their tools against their shoulders. Dark their forms move against the flooded earth in the thin light of the morn.

"Aye, well, there is naught to be done for that." Master Herdir clutches his cap to his breast so it may not fall and be lost, and, kneeling, leans to tug at a wooden gate in the ditch's bank.

When he rises, it is to give the gate an easy kick with the toe of his boot. It holds and little water leaks about its edges. Ere putting it upon his head, he motions with his cap down the fall of land to where stands pools of water upon which floats the gilding of the dawn. One lone form stands at the bottom of the slope, where the worst of it lies. A full virgate he has now, discharged in payment for the services he had rendered.

"Should we clear the tail ditches of debris now, we may yet be able to drain some of the water from the lower furrows there, and save some of the planting," Master Herdir says and I must leave off my staring to follow him as we make our way down the furrow. "So long as they used good sense and put beans or dredge to it, and left their wheat to the higher ground."

"Then let us hope the Valar shall be so kind as to delay more rain."

"Aye, and, begging your pardon, my lady, that _gorgol_ of Angmar take his boot from off our neck. Fair weather or wet, I cannot get a read upon it atimes for the overshadowing ill will that clouds the skies. I know not what to plan for, but it seems best to plan for the worst."

I do not resent him his cursing. Indeed, I might use words as coarse, were I not within his hearing.

I nod to the seedlings of barley and oat beneath our feet. They lie torn from where they had been seeded and washed into eddies of green. "Put these back to bed in the driest of the furrows and see should they take? They have not yet drowned, have they?"

Herdir shakes his head. "We have another day, no more than two at the most. At best we will lose two for every ten, should our luck hold, but more should we keep this clouded sun in the next few days. But should it rain again, we will be lucky to keep half."

"Very well," I say and sigh. "Speak to Elder Tanaes. He will have the list of men who are on the rotation."

"Aye, my lady," says he and brings his knuckles to his brow in an absent salute as he turns to go.

"Stay here," I command, looking downfield.

Ranger Mathil follows my gaze. His fingers play upon the pommel of his sword for a moment ere he nods his assent. He stands at easy rest where he may watch from afar, his arms folded across his breast.

With but my hood to keep me warm, I pull handfuls of cloth from my skirts up from under my belt as I walk to shorten them, so they need not drag through the wet earth. Already the mud clings to their hem, and soon I shall need to move more freely than their length would allow.

I make for the lone figure at the end of the slow fall of land. Dark he stands against the surface of the standing water, shimmering as it is with the force of the wind that blows upon it and the rising sun to our backs.

Sure it is he hears me approach, for I can do little to quell the squelching of mud beneath my boots. He wipes his palms across his cheeks and breathes in deep.

"Ranger Mathil would not wish you so near me, my lady," he calls when I draw nigh.

"Ranger Mathil has no say in the matter, Master Fimon."

"Then you know not what I have spoken against you."

"I know what you have said."

I have reached his side and the wind drives the faint scent of fouled eggs from the water. He had spared not a glance to see who was coming upon him, and e'en now looks o'er the bean seedlings beneath its surface.

"Then mayhap you should not have walked all this way to crow at my misfortune," he says and laughs. 'Tis a harsh, bitter sound. "I had thought our fortunes made. Now I will not see half of this come to fruit."

"No, you will not. But half is more than none."

"Forgive me, my lady, an I speak plainly, but should you think your help with this repair my thoughts of the House, or what you do in its name –"

"Master Fimon, the day may yet come when you shall regret not having taken up Halbarad's sword and pressed it to my throat for the good of the Dúnedain. One day I may yet deserve it. But today is not that day."

This earns me a quick look, sour though it is.

"And I am not ready to cede this particular field of battle," I go on. "Who will it feed, of your kin, should you have just the half?"

"Leave off, my lady, 'tis no use." He shakes his head and turns his back to me.

"Your daughters? Will it be enough for them?"

He sighs and his shoulders sag. True it is, we both know I make unfair use of his devotion to them, but it does not follow that he will not remain unmoved under its prod.

"Then we shall do it for them." I step back and leave room in the furrow for the man to walk past, should he so wish. "Come, Master Fimon, show me where I am to start."

After a long moment in which we stand in the wind and the water beneath our feet seeps into our boots, he wipes again at his face and turns away from the pool of water under which his crops drown. He labors through the mud past me up the slope and I follow.

~oOo~

"Ugh!" Master Bachor lets loose a breath in disgust and coughs. "A plague on this wind!

"What say you, my lady, we leave off with the barley and see what we can make of the beans ere we break for the midday meal?" He waves a muddied hand down the slope, where the worst of the water has been drained and the mud is soaked and glistens darkly.

I look about to find we have worked our way through o'er half of what we had set ourselves to do, and other folk now bend o'er Master Fimon's furrow upland. My hands are deep in mud. It clings and binds my fingers one tother with the sucking weight of the clay. Though I attempt to shake my hand free of it, the act does little more than fling globs of it about. The wet weights my dress, so I must push myself from the earth when I rise.

Bachor squints up at the thin sun ere motioning us down the slope.

I care little for the man's look. He had not seemed to be doing so poorly when first he had come upon me. There he had stood upon the edge of the field with his fists upon his hips, considering me where I knelt in the mud, attempting to speak to Ranger Mathil. About what, I know not, but I think my lord's man would have naught of it, for his gaze ne'er turned to the Elder and he did not speak.

Bachor shook his head and, shrugging his great leather and fur coat from off his shoulders, dropped it to the grass. He made his way steadily down the furrows, slow in his steps to avoid both seedlings and incautious movement upon the loose soil. Once he came upon me, he said naught, but knelt beside me and, for lack of spade, took up unmoored seedlings and put them to bed in each hole I dug. Now, the skin beneath his eyes is dark and loose and his lips have a faint blue cast for all the bright color upon his cheeks. It comes to me that he moves with a slowness that is not his wont, as would he guard against the movement of aching joints.

"Are you well, Master Bachor?"

"Ah! 'Tis naught," he says, waving an irritable hand at me as he passes. "A chill and a bad night's sleep, or, rather, no sleep, is all."

He speaks no further and so I follow, and we set to our work again, this time moving downland. Here the water had slowed in its rush upon the fields and so few seedlings are torn out and swept away, but much work will be needed to cover their roots. What I would give for the hoe that sits in its leather bucket in my buttery, but it is not to be had and I would not send one of our folk to retrieve it. They are needed here.

And so we set to our work and the sun passes in its unseen arc o'erhead.

Bachor groans and let himself fall heavily to sitting. There he leans his arms upon his knees and lets his muddy hands dangle from his wrists.

"Ah, what I wouldn't give for somewhat hot," he says and, coughing a little, clears his throat and breathes heavily. "Are you not weary? I feel I could lay down and fall asleep e'en here."

I grunt in response, my attention more on the soil that seems to drain away the more I push it around the roots of the bean plant. The further downfield we work, the less progress we make.

"Stop. Give it a rest, my lady," he says and, digging his hands into the soil, flings a handful of mud at me so that it spatters at my knees and flings up water and droplets of mud.

"Leave off, Bachor," I say and, sighing, search about for a clod of dirt to hem in the small mound I have built. For the pity of the Valar, we have not the time to fuss with each plant.

"Ah, what happened to you, my lady? Time was you would have had your revenge already." He bites at his lip and, glancing quickly around him, takes up yet another handful of dirt and flings it in my direction.

At that I peer about from where I lean o'er the bean plants.

"Ah, they are not looking," he says. "You need not worry they think the Lady of the Dúnedain giving her attentions where she should not."

I sigh and sit back on my heels, wiping my hands upon my dress. "What do you want, Bachor?" For the man is clearly begging for my notice.

"And you have never more looked the part as you do now, my lady," says he, grinning, his eyes fixed upon my chin.

"What?" I demand. I cannot think what has gotten into the man.

He points roughly at my face and then lets his hand fall to dangling again. "You have got some mud on your chin."

I shrug my jaw against my shoulder.

"No, 'tis still there," he says. He pushes a hand against the dirt and rolls to his knees as were he about to crawl to me. "Hold. Allow me, my lady."

With little thought to it, I lift my chin for his aid, only for him to then to reach o'er the distance and smear muddy fingers upon my cheek and lips.

I start back from his hand, spitting grains of mud from between my teeth and wiping at my mouth with my sleeve.

"Bachor!" I hiss. _Ai!_ He is giggling, and it draws the eyes of the folk upon the furrows about us. "Stop with this nonsense!"

But with this he breaks into full, high laughter, his eyes bright, only to fall to a deep coughing. His face darkens with his efforts and his breast heaves in his attempt to take in breath until, his eyes widening of a sudden, he launches himself from the grip of the clay, clutching at his throat and wheezing thinly. He is not fully aloft when he then teeters upon his feet and comes crashing down as had every string of sinew upon his bones been cut of the once.

"Bachor!" I cry and, abandoning my spade, crawl through the clinging mud to where he has fallen, dragging my skirts with me.

Men drop their tools and splash water and mud in their wake as they come running down the furrow.

"Come no nearer!" I shout, and they halt, staring at us.

Even now Bachor stirs groggily and grunts with the effort to rise from the wet earth that clings to him, but on his lips and cheek lies a great clot of phlegm and spittle of white and pink froth from his coughing.

I have groped my way to him and, after much squeezing of my hand through the folds of my hood, clean it enough to lay my wrist upon his brow.

"What -" He peers at me, his eyes clouded and slow to focus.

Oh, _ai!_ I had thought his color high for the chill wind and the rising of his blood with our work, but his skin is hot as were there banked coals beneath it.

"Bachor, whatever possessed you to work in the cold and mud at such a time?" I demand.

He blinks muzzily up at me. "'Twas not so bad. I thought it would pass."

Folk ring about us, muttering. More come and, soon, the word has spread. They call for Master Fimon, but dare come no nearer. Bachor grabs at the cloth about my shoulder and, through dint of him pulling and my hand upon his arm, we have got him to sitting where he might breathe more freely.

Booted feet slap at the mud and a harsh voice shouts at the edge of the crowd.

"Make way, damn you! Make way!" comes Ranger Mathil's voice.

I think now he must regret his choice to forego standing in watch for bending his own back to the labor in the Angle's fields. For he pushes men aside in his haste so that they slip upon the mud and grasp upon their mates to stay aloft.

"I am in no danger, Mathil," I call, and he slides to a stop, taking in Bachor's grip deep in the wool of my hood and his labored breathing.

Bachor blinks at the folk surrounding us.

Ranger Mathil's breast heaves from his efforts at running through the mud and looks at me with some relief, I think, ere releasing his hands from where he had clutched the pommel of his sword with one and its housing with the other. "What do you wish, my lady?"

I shiver at the mark I have left upon Bachor's brow and rub at it with the folds of his own hood. He blinks at me and shakes to clear his head.

_Ai! _ Bachor has little time and Mistress Nesta's sickhouses lie upon the far side of the Angle. The wet and cold do him no favors. An he is confused and muddle-headed now, should his fever strengthen much more, he is like to start seizing.

"We need to get him home, I think, 'tis the closer," I say.

Mathil nods and squints about for what may be at hand to give us aid. I cannot think what he shall find, for much of the Angle's carts and the horses that pull them have carried men to their work upon the dam.

"Let him through!" I hear and heavy footfalls running upon us up the rise and through mud though it is.

"Bachor!" calls Master Fimon. He has stopped well beyond reach, panting and leaning upon his knees. His look darts from my face to Mathil's to Bachor's and takes in the unsteadiness of Bachor's limbs and uneven rising of his breast. "You fell?"

"Aye, Fimon," says Bachor and pushes against the grip of the mud, slipping against it. "I am not well, but not gone yet."

"Bachor, stop." I insist but 'tis to little effect, for the man shakes off my hand and gets his feet beneath him.

"Have none of you survived the coughing sickness?" I call to the folk about us, but all I receive in response are the shaking of heads, muttering, and shifting of feet away. I have no need to look to Ranger Mathil, for I know he has not. Still, his lips thin and he shakes his head, though he makes no move to distance himself.

With this, Bachor clutches at my shoulder and, levering his weight against it, pushes himself aloft. "Stop, all of you," he commands, his face grim and teeth set. Though a little unsteady upon his feet, he keeps upright. "I am not a child. You need not make the decision for me."

"I will take him, my lady," says Mathil reaching a hand to the man's arm, but I launch myself to my feet.

"No, you will not!" I say and Bachor lets out an irritable huff.

"Enough of this," he says. "I can walk."

"Stay with your crops, Fimon," he goes on when his oathman scowls at him. "They have need of you here and I can walk. 'Tis short, the distance. I will make it."

_Ai!_ The stubbornness of men.

"Enough of your gawking," he shouts, flinging his hand in a loose gesture at the crowd. "I will be well enough. There is work to do and not much time to do it in. Every little counts. Go to it and leave me be!"

They step away, though slowly, for Bachor has overbalanced himself in his pique.

"I need not your pity!" he shouts and for their faces, I think he does little to reassure them with his protests. "The _Bloody Butcher_ take you all should you not stop with your dour looks!"

He slips upon the mud and I grab upon the crook of his arm to steady him. For all his ire, he does not protest it, but coughs and curses, leaning upon me.

"Nienelen?" he says low, and I catch his look for but an instant ere he swallows and draws away.

At least, in my confusion and grief, I was spared this, this grappling with the suddenness of my fate.

Licking his lips, Master Fimon leans in as close as he dares and says low so fewer ears can hear him. "Bachor, are you certain? I would go with you, should you allow it."

"Do not be a fool, Fimon," Bachor says, his voice harsh. "It will just serve to take the sickness home with you to your wife and daughters." He sighs and takes pity on the man. "Send for Mistress Nesta and have her meet us an you would have somewhat to do."

He takes in the state of the fields below us and I think he assesses the most likely path around the standing water and ditches. But for Ranger Mathil, who has remained silent and watches us steadily, we are now alone. Fimon strides as quickly as he might through the furrows upfield and the folk have returned to their work, though true their attention is not fully upon it.

"I will go with you," say I and Bachor nods, sniffing and wiping at his face with his sleeve ere he turns. We start our slow tramping down to the bottom of the field where lies the footpath o'er the tail ditches.

"Where you go, I go, my lady," says Mathil when his movement catches my eye.

"Only should you keep your distance, Ranger Mathil."

We said little as we made our way, Master Bachor and I. I know not his thoughts, but I doubt not they troubled him. For he stumbled atimes, and I think not for his weariness but for want of attention to aught below his feet. And so, I kept my hold upon his arm and attended where he could not. He, breathing heavily and weaving upon his feet, allowed it.

'Twas not until we had put the ditches behind us and walked the path between the tall laid hedgerows of hawthorn about his pastures, did Master Bachor speak.

"When they take me to barrows, I do not want you there, my lady."

"What?" I ask, stunned, for of all the matters I thought him contemplating, this was not one of them. And true it is, it stings, that he would not want me there at the last.

He shakes his head, his face grim. "There is burden enough between us, Nienelen, and deeply do I regret the words I said there -"

"Bachor, stop this talk," I say, shaking his arm where I have ahold of it. _Ai_, merciful Nienna!

"Nay, my lady," he continues, "I have seen you stand upon that high place oft enough. If you have aught of kindness left for me, you will not make me the cause of yet more of your grief."

"You need not speak so. We have time yet."

"I know my chances, my lady, as well as you. Mistress Nesta may fill my gullet full of her cure, but the odds are not in my favor. I know not their temper should it come to it. We will say our goodbyes, but not there, and not in the company of my oathmen."

I glance back, and indeed Ranger Mathil strides behind us. His look uneasy, I doubt not he and Master Bachor's thoughts in accord on the subject. An the risks be great should I disregard his wishes and attend both wake and burial, I cannot think there shall not be e'en greater risks should I not pay him and them the respects he deserves.

"And you will not let Matilde near me," Bachor says ere I can gather my thoughts and it is all I can do to stare at him and not stumble on the path. "You must swear it, Nienelen! She will protest and wish to tend to me herself, but you must not let her."

"Should you wish it, Bachor," I say, but it seems this not enough to satisfy, for his look is the more stern.

"Swear it, or I shall refuse passage beyond the Circles of the World and wear out your days causing you such misery as you shall wish they were no more."

"You need not speak so. I will see to it."

"Swear to it! On your husband's life, my lady, for surely hers would be as forfeit should you fail."

"I swear it."

He nods, his face grim.

"I have been thinking." Here he stops and stiffens beneath my touch as must he either gird himself against some threat to come or to keep himself from collapsing upon the path.

"You had the right of it. This rift between us, it only makes the Angle weaker. Can we not put an end to it?" he asks, his eyes searching mine. I know what he sees there, but he blinks and, wiping at his face, looks off down the path ere speaking again. "I do not understand how any can live in these times and not find themselves moved to reconsider what they think of the world and their place in it. I thought the world one thing, but have come to know it is another."

He coughs a little and clears his throat. A sweat has sprung up on his brow and his eyes glitter. He looks upon me earnestly, weighing my silence, as had he long prepared words for me and hopes to give them greater weight.

"She was my first, Nienelen," he says when I do not protest, "my first of love, and my first of loss. I was young, foolish, and protected from want, and gave no thought to the future. I had thought us immune to the whims of the world and so gave little heed to the risks. 'Twas she who paid the price for it. I will e'er regret it. I will die regretting it, but I would beg your forgiveness for the hurt it did to you, should you give it."

He waits in silence and he grips my hand the tighter for the tears I must still, for during his speech I had sought out his hand and clasped it. Beneath the dirt that lays as a film upon our skin, his hand is warm and, of the first in many years, a comfort to me. I do not know what shall become of me should I be forced to let it go.

"You were my brother," I say when I can speak, "and I was cruel to you when I should not have been."

His face lightens and he laughs ere his face contorts in sudden grief, and he draws my hand to his lips to press a swift kiss upon my knuckles.

"That is good, aye, that is good," he says and laughs again, wiping at his eyes. He stumbles a little when he turns to resume walking. Catching up my hand, he presses it to his arm.

"Were we not merry, the three of us?' he asks. "Such adventures we had. Do you not recall it?"

"Aye, I recall many of them, and the switch my father would take to me upon his return home for it."

He snorts, needing no explanation further than that. 'Tis an argument as old as an unwashed, over-worn garment; ill-fitting and unpleasant for both the wearer and those close to him.

"Ah, you forget. There was naught Laenor could have done would have changed my mind about her. Her future was well-secured. But you? Your father harbored great doubts as to what place you might find in the Angle."

I sigh, for e'er had he taken my father's side in my youthful grievances against him. I pull him more upright and away from the ditch abutting our path.

"Aragorn the Grim," he intones. "I cannot fathom why you chose to marry a man such as him instead. Gone a'ranging for years a time. What a lonely existence you must have."

"Come, Bachor, stop with your dawdling." Oh, this is not good. His feet have begun to wander, along with his mind.

"Does he ne'er smile?" he goes on as had I not spoken. "Oh, aye, I am sure our Lord of the Dúnedain would be ascendant in all things, but, still, what must it be like to bed such a man?"

"_Ai!_ _Curb thy tongue, _Bachor,_"_ I hiss at him, glancing back at Mathil, to find him biting his lip and studiously looking elsewhere. "_Else I shall drop thee into the muck and let thee crawl home of thyself_."

"Aye! That is the Nienelen I recall from those days!" High and harsh comes his laughter, but this only sets off another round of coughing. He halts under the force of it, his face dark and eyes straining. When done, he swallows against the irritation in his throat.

His face twists with pain. "I have been so careless!" he cries. His knees buckle beneath him, so I must bear the greater of his weight. "Alas, I have squandered it all."

"You have not! Harken to me, Bachor!" I grip the man by handfuls of his tunic and hood and shake him so his head jolts upon his neck and his eyes roll. "You are not yourself!"

"Laenor?" he asks low when he has settled. His eyes glitter brightly and chase my features from my chin to the hair pulled from my scarf to my eyes. _"Oh,"_ he whispers, his gaze going soft and sad, and his hand coming up to brush at my cheek, _"how I have missed thee_."

_Ai! _ I skirt his touch by but a hairs-breadth. For the pity of the Valar! I give him another great shake and he blinks at me with eyes that are slow to come to see me.

His brows draw into a thin line and he peers at me. "You are not Laenor," he says, and I hope him done and ready to move. "Though you sound much like her. Did I tell you that, my lady? You sound like your sister, when she was screaming."

Merciful Nienna! I do not wish to hear this!

"Bachor, we must go. We must do somewhat about your fever. You need your bed!" I tug upon him, but he has set his feet and merely stumbles a step or two ere stopping.

"For a moment, my heart said 'twas her, screaming above stairs." His eyes widen with the remembrance. "It was not. It was you, Nienelen. And I could do naught but await the sound of your convulsions rattling the wood above us."

"Bachor, _wilt thou not come?_" I plead, but he grasps my hands and stills my pulling upon him.

"They were all there, the Council and chiefs of the pledge." Here he looks upon me with pity and then lets loose a huff of breath. "And he was not. _Just long enough to get thee with child and then gone again_."

"Bachor." I drop my brow to his shoulder, so weary of this am I, I care not should Mathil see it. Sorely am I tempted to leave Bachor here to the chances of the cold and the wind. "_I beg of thee, stop." _

"Bachor!" calls Mathil, his voice more commanding than it seems his years would give him. _"Move! Else I must make thee move._"

Bachor starts at the sound, jerking beneath me where I am pressed against his hood. His hands come up to grasp my shoulders and put me away from him, where he blinks and frowns at me. "_Who has made thee weep?" "Ai!" _he goes on, his hand come to press my cheek. _"No more tears, little sister, not for thee, aye? No more."_

He stumbles so I must throw my arms about him. _Ai!_ I should ne'er get him up from the ground should he fall.

"My lady?" calls Mathil. I know him nigh ready to forego all my orders and lay hands upon the man, torn between the surety of infection and distaste at his helpless state.

"Oh, Bachor," I say, sighing.

"You have but to command it, my lady," says Mathil. He has closed some of the distance between him though I shake my head at him.

"Come, Nienelen," Bachor says, wrapping his arm about my shoulders and pulling me close into his side.

"Let us go home," he says, his voice low in my ear when he has leaned to me. "We shall have mulled wine and steal honeyed figs from my mother's pantry again."

"This way, then," I say and wipe hastily at my eyes when he rights himself and peers uncertainly about him. He sets one foot afore the other under the force of my pulling, weaving and bumping into me.

"She is not so clever as she thinks, my mother. I know where she has hidden them," he leans in again to whisper and I must push him upright. "Would you like that? _Dry thine eyes. I shall beg my sister see thee cleaned of the mud, warmed afore our hearth, and made presentable again ere thine aunt has chance to know of it_. _All will be well._"

Behind us, in the distance, comes the thud of hooves and faint rattle of wood wheels. I would not have known it but for Ranger Mathil's abrupt turning about. Thank the Valar!

And soon e'en Master Bachor knows it for what it is, for he halts and clings to me.

"She is come for me, is she not, with her cart?" he asks.

Most oft Nesta and her folk put it to use for carrying the dead, and I wonder should he be so muddled he thinks he is already gone. For his face has gone slack, and his eyes, once bright with remembrance, have dulled.

"_Aye, Nesta will make thee well again, as best she is able, _Bachor."

He nods and turns to face the oncoming cart, still distant though it is.

"Will you stay with me, Nienelen?" he asks, in a voice much younger than e'er I remembered of him. "Just for a little."

"Aye, Bachor. I will stay."

~oOo~


	54. Chapter 53

~ Chapter 53 ~

"_But Boromir did not speak again._

'_Alas!' said Aragorn. 'Thus passes the heir of Denethor, Lord of the Tower of Guard! This is a bitter end. … He knelt for a while, bent with weeping, still clasping Boromir's hand."_

TTT: The Departure of Boromir

~oOo~

_~ TA 3018 30__th__ day of Lótessë: This week alone seven families have come begging aid so they might safely flee to the Blue Mountains. I have none to give them. _

~oOo~

This morning, I am at home. The Angle cares for itself this one moment of the day. For the sun has shown himself and the plum tree burst into blossom beneath his warm touch. I have little desire to be elsewhere.

For, in the small hours of the morning ere dawn, the youth who walks his lord's toft o'er the night woke us with his pounding upon the great door. I caught little of what he said at first. 'Twas not until Halbarad shouted up the stairs I knew it.

"Fire!" he had shouted, and we tumbled from our beds and out of doors.

I bound my daughter to me with her nursing blanket and, in naught but my shift and with my daughter's screaming in my ear, pulled buckets filled with water from the well and the men threw their contents against the back wall of my lord's house. Even now the faint smell of scorched wood and the animal dung and straw of the daub lingers in the morning air.

When done, Halbarad took my spade and dug out the last of the glowing embers from the base of the house and smothered them in strips of turf he ripped from the greensward. We stood, then, in our bare feet and looked upon the ruin that was the side of my lords' hall. For there beneath the lightening sky of the approaching dawn, the black, charred surface of the house was as a gaping hole reaching high to the windows of the solar, and the leaves that over-hang the roof had curled upon themselves in the heat. I could only marvel the stench of the smoke had not awakened me.

At the sight, the youth sank to the dew-covered grass of his lord's toft, covered his face and wept in his pain and relief. For he bore a great knot upon his head where he had been attacked from behind. And though dazed, he had chased after them and had the wit to return when they scattered and the light behind his back quickened in the dark.

Aye, the folk of the Angle are frightened. Master Bachor no longer has their ear and what time I had bought upon the events of the hallmoot has come to an end. For painted in dark mud stark against the whitewash of the house were ugly words I will not repeat here. 'Tis not the first either he or I have seen them of late. But, this time, they come with fire.

And so, this morning I sit in the garden with my baskets of wool about me and my daughter playing beneath branches bright with flowers. Here, I await what news Halbarad can discover of the trail they left behind when they tore through the thicket behind my lord's hall. For, once he saw us safe, he followed it and, even now, pursues it path into the houses of the folk of the Angle. Talk, I can abide, but not those who stir up the pot of enmity and resentments brewing among our folk and urge a remedy of violence.

The teeth of the carding brush catch at my skin and sleeves should I pay too little heed. And so, I listen to the rhythmic rip of brush against brush as I pull the wool between their many teeth and consider what punishment I must visit upon their heads. Life banished beyond the Wild is a poor choice, but mayhap, to their mind, the threat of orc and were and warg is not so near that starving in their own beds is a better one. Exile has no teeth so sharp as hunger.

And so, though I despair of ever spinning this wool, for it is too fine and breaks too oft for the poor diet of the beasts that once wore it, it gives me excuse to sit here and let the sun sink into my hair and clothing for a little. My daughter has taken to piteous crying and clutching at my skirts should she discern my intent to step outside the bounds of my lord's house. I would have a morning of peace and so I wait until her midday rest ere I must walk the pasture in search of my lord's dower and see the sheep settled.

The garden repays my efforts with the faint scent of lavender, vervain, and rosemary, and the nodding of leaves of ivy upon the wattle fence, but I am slow to trust its beauty born of spring rains. For no more am I awakened by a great chorus of birdsong upon the dawn. 'Twas not only the folk of the Angle that went hungry this winter past. No more do the doves coo from the eaves of the house or do I hear the scrabble of the small claws and barking of the squirrels among the trees. The bleating of the sheep comes seldom upon the morn when they wait for me to lead them to their pasture.

Master Baran no longer cares for the beasts upon my lord's lands and it was left to my lord's reeve and I to see to them. In the midst of winter did we miss him. I know not when or why Master Baran left, but he is gone. Mayhap it was his intent to lighten our burden of his belly or mayhap some mischance took him. I know not. We could not find him.

My daughter squeals wordlessly and I look up to see her pointing to the top of the fence. A flash of bright color and I see where the lizard scrabbles away from her and disappears through a chink between the withies and the vines.

"_Mamil! Mamil! _What is it?" she cries and runs swiftly back to me, for she must tell me all she has seen. And she does, babbling in her infant's voice and bouncing on her feet as she tugs at my skirts.

Her face beams up at me and my heart aches for it. I return to the carding brushes and she to holding onto my dress and twisting it in her fists. Her curls hang loose behind her as she lays her head back. I know not should she seek to pull me from my turf seat or see how far she can lean back and not tumble, but I know I like neither game.

"Mayhap it is time you found your poppet and played here beside me for a little while, hmm?"

Her eyes widen with surprise and dismay and she drops my skirts. She has forgotten her poppet! She grabs my hand to lead me on the search. But, soon, her determined face lights upon her treasure, and she slips from my grasp and leaps upon it. Leaves cling to the hair of dark wool and dirt to the last of my lord's lady mother's velvets that makes for the soft face and arms of the poppet. She scowls and then thrusts the toy up at me so I may set her friend to rights.

"_Mamil!_ Mida! Help me, _Mamil_," she says and then, when the poppet is back in her arms, presses it close and kisses its soft face, her little face beaming.

I shake my head and she follows as I retrieve the carding brushes. Soon, she stands beside me, leaning against my hip and watching as I ease the wool into a roll atop the brush. I turn away to add the roving to the growing pile within its basket, settling them to fitting more firmly therein. And then I have lost the thread of my thoughts, for I am staring at the wool, a strand pinched between finger and thumb, and am unsure what I had intended. I seem to recall my thoughts wandering through darkened paths, but I know not where.

A high shriek sends my heart to racing and the brushes clatter to the stones.

"Ah! _ Little one!_" I scold and pull Elenir to my lap. Her face is a study in misery, her lip pouting and brow knotting. "_Touchest thou the brush?_"

She nods, her eyes brimming with tears, and then buries her face in my breast, wailing as she clutches her poppet to her. It takes but a brief moment of being held and she quiets.

"Come, let me see," I say, and she sits to hold her hand up for inspection, her face solemn as she sniffs against more tears. There is not so much as a prickle of red upon her fingers, though I twist her hand to and fro and make good effort to examine her.

"You seem to have taken no great hurt, _lapsinya_," I say, and she returns my look dubiously.

"It hurts," she protests, her little brow drawn and dark.

"Aye, and you have been quite brave." I press a kiss onto her upturned nose.

And this seems to be sufficient, for she slides from my lap and wipes at her nose with her sleeve, her poppet catching the worst of it, it seems.

I think then we shall go on with our morning as afore, but of a sudden my daughter's eyes fall and she shrinks against my side. At the prickle of hairs upon my neck I twist about and thrust her behind me, my heart leapt to my throat.

He stands there, having come in through the gate without our knowing. There he looks upon us as were we a dream that visited as he slept and now, to his shock, he finds upon his waking we are of flesh and blood.

His hair hangs in greasy streaks and his skin is greatly begrimed. His cloak is nigh a rag that hangs from a frame too spare for his coat and the black of his shirt has faded to a rusty grey in the rain and sun. But I think I have ne'er found my lord to look so fair.

This time, it is I who fly to him. I am careless of my embrace and it seems to knock the strength from him, and we sink to the stones. His fingers are upon my hair cradling my head against his as we kneel together. I know not should he draw in a full breath, but I know I cannot.

When we part, he says naught, nor do I, but he cups my cheeks with his hands. Though his face is grim, the thumb that brushes across my skin speaks clearly of the greatness of his relief. At the question in his glance o'er my shoulder, I push out of his arms and run to the small girl who stands staring mutely at us, shrunk against the vines climbing the wattle fence. As I approach, she abandons her poppet and lifts her arms to me, her little face bewildered and her fingers grasping at the air.

"_Mamil_," she cries and her face puckers in distress, but I am already lifting her into the air and settling her warm weight to my hip. Her hands cling to my shirt. From the safety of my embrace, she stares at this stranger who is her father.

"My lord, here you find your daughter," I say, my voice but a whisper bereft of breath, and kneel with her afore my lord.

She turns her face and buries it in my neck, unable to bear his scrutiny when his hand comes to brush upon her hair and arm, this man who has disrupted her world. His eyes grow bleak and I think he would weep for the time lost.

"I have called her Elenir, after my mother, but, my lord, you have the right to name her as you see fit."

He shakes his head and presses his lips to the face turned away from him. And then his glance falls upon me, and I know it comes. Ah, my lord, your House has such cold comfort with which to welcome you home.

"Where is my son?" asks he, clearing his throat so he might speak. "Where is Edainion?"

"My lord," I say and halt. I have no words to soften the blow, but it seems even now I am too late, for he stares at me as one stricken and his hands tighten upon us.

"He sickened, my lord." And for the clenching of my throat I can say no more.

He thrusts himself up from the stone, leaving our embrace and striding swiftly away. I hear him in the house, throwing open the door to the buttery so it strikes the wall and leaping up the stairs. I am the slower for the burden of our daughter I carry, but I follow.

It was there I found my lord, standing at the top of the stairwell and staring into the empty solar. The trundle bed is neatly tucked away and the feather mattress of the master bed lies o'er its foot, airing out the mattress of straw and wormwood below, its curtains tied tight to the posts. The sun streams in through the windows, lighting motes of dust as they float through the room. All else is still.

I cannot tell his thoughts for the blankness of his face, but, in his hand, my lord has crushed the pouch I have seen him draw from his pack, that in which he gathers _athelas_ against the need of its use.

"My lord," I say and lift his hand in mine. "Come, eat. When you have rested, I will take you to your son."

~oOo~

'Twas not I who made my lord's seat soft nor set the best of the meal afore him. I was much occupied in tending to the hearth and the child who scampered about it, pulling her wheeled hare behind her on its string and calling to it. In my stead it was my lord's kin who sat him down and lay the choicest morsels of squirrel stewed in fiddleheads that we had left, a tea of pine needles, and what little, gray bread we had upon his place. Long had my lord gazed upon his kin upon his arrival and hard was their embrace, but though Halbarad sat by his side, my lord asked no questions and made no comment. Later they would speak of the Angle and the wider lands placed in Halbarad's care. Now, my lord ate little, no matter the hunger of his road, and said even less. Only his eyes spoke for him.

For, throughout the meal, my lord watched his daughter. She refused to sit upon her cushion and clambered o'er my lap and tugged on my hair while I fed her from my bowl. And when done, when my lord would retreat to the solar to dress after having cleaned the dirt of his travels from him, his gaze fell all places but upon his wife where she sat nursing his child and easing her into her midday slumber upon their bed. When refreshed and dressed anew, he left the solar on swift feet and wandered the house and grounds, his eyes mutely cataloguing places of memory, until it was time.

"Lady?" my lord asks, for it seems my feet have grown roots. He has turned and looks upon me, his hand raised as should he wish to take mine. "Will you not come with me?"

Here we stand in the cool shadows of the pines as were we beneath a great gate. The high meadow is clothed in its spring garments. Warm is the sun and cool the breeze that bends the buttercups where they spring between the grasses. The sight of the hillside seems nigh a glimpse into another world, eerily bright as were it another's sun that looks down upon it. I listen to the soft whispering of the wind. My lord and I, without word, walked the dim path from the square to this high place, his footsteps soft beside mine, deep in the loam of fallen needles, and his hand upon my arm when he thought I might falter. And yet, I can go no further into that bright and windswept world.

"Shall you not show me where he lies?" my lord asks. His hand falls to his side.

I dare not look upon his face. "You will know it, my lord."

He is silent, and, though his gaze is fixed upon me, asks no more. Soon, he will turn away and wander the paths amidst our dead until he finds what he seeks.

I leave my lord among the golden, nodding heads of buttercup, there to be private in his grief. When last I see him, he lowers himself beside the small mound that is his son's and he is lost to my sight.

Later, with the setting of the day's sun, we shall lie upon our bed, my lord and I, as have not for many months, and listen to our daughter's breathing. His hand shall find mine below the covers, and there clutch it tightly it until the soft sounds below us come slow and scarcely heard.

When my lord's fingers play upon my ribs, he makes a small and dismayed sound. Bitter have been my lord's days, I think, and I have little left with which to sweeten his nights. By the rustling of bedclothes and rocking of the bed, I know he comes near and would turn to me. For the shadows of the solar, I see not his face. The moon rises late and we lie yet in darkness.

"My lord," I say but it seems he hears me not and his hands tighten painfully upon me.

Faint though it is, his eyes catch the glitter of the stars and refuse to let me look away. And when I allow the kiss, it is harsh and my lord's lips are of salt, a bitter taste. Heedless of me, he pulls at bedclothes and shift until I am bare to him, where he then travels across my skin with kisses that seem more to devour than caress.

"My lord, wait!" I hiss and push at his shoulder.

He has settled himself between my thighs but then comes to a sudden halt of himself. His lips have come upon the scar that brought his daughter into this world and there he pulls his thumb across my flesh to confirm what his eyes cannot see.

"What is this?" comes his demand in a harsh whisper.

"My lord," I say to the dark above our heads, "your daughter came at the price of her brothers, for, upon her birth, I can bear no other of you."

At that, his face hovers over me and deeply do I dread what are sure to be his next words. But then his brow falls wearily upon the bone of my hip. I need not see my lord's features to know what plays upon them now.

"'Tis no use, my lord. _Thou canst not split thyself asunder and be both hither and yon_."

His body lays stiffly braced between my thighs, as were each muscle strung for either battle or flight. The long breath he looses trembles across my skin. It seems, then, he will put me away from him and we shall sleep side by side much as we had afore, and I shall fall into sleep lulled by no more than the sound of his breathing and warmed by the heat of his skin. But it is not so, for my lord wraps his arms to my back and clutches yet more tightly onto me and there, against my hip, he takes in and releases uncertain draughts of air.

"My lord," I say yet again after a moment we are thus, but falter. I know not what I wish to say but know only I cannot bear the waiting for what must surely come next.

With this, his hands loosen their hold upon me.

"Aye, lady," he says low, and, withdrawing to his side of the bed, turns away and there, drawing the bedclothes up about us, falls still.

~oOo~


	55. Chapter 54

~ Chapter 54 ~

_Strider looked grave. 'I do not know,' he said. 'I came west with Gandalf in the spring. I have oft kept watch on the borders of the Shire in the last few years, when he was busy elsewhere. He seldom left it unguarded. We last met on the first of May: at Sarn Ford down the Brandywine. He told me that his business with you had gone well, and that you would be starting for Rivendell in the last week of September. As I knew he was at your side, I went away on a journey of my own. _

FOTR: Strider

~oOo~

_~ TA 3018 1__st__ day of Nárië: Master Fimon reports no sign of him as yet. _

~oOo~

Silence has fallen upon us and I listen to the children playing upon the Elder's garden, for here we spend our morning hours speaking with Mistress Pelara while my daughter scampers and squeals in the care of the children of his house. Their cries spill in through the door with the sun, yet there is a deeper silence which I do not understand. Elder Maurus has gone visiting and leaves his hall to the women, protesting the choice given of either moving his weary bones or having to bear with our chattering.

Elesinda's head bends over the pages of my journal as she carefully inscribes the lists of fields ploughed and those yet to be seeded. Such is the quiet I can hear the scratch of her quill upon the parchment. She is diligent in her scribing, and I am pleased with her efforts, though she is slower at it than afore. We have seen little of her, for she, too, had been stricken with fever and cough o'er the winter, and only now had the strength to rejoin us. Soon, when she is more recovered, she is to find work among Nesta's folk, so great is the need for those who have survived the sickness.

Pelara waits at the table for Elesinda to finish, her chin in her hand as her eyes look to some far distant place. She is beyond what once brought her shame, with naught of ale or cakes with which to ease our debates. In their stead, we sit and watch the sun drift across the floor, and I puzzle at the silence about us.

_Ai!_ I have forgot yet again to attend to the sheep! Neither today nor the day afore have I seen to them, but left them to pasture on their own. Aye, well, there is naught for it, now. They shall have to wait until I return to my lord's hall. Mayhap I should have done as Pelara had advised, and trained some willing youth to the task, for no longer could I ask it of Master Herdir.

Ah. I have it now. 'Tis the hens. No longer does their sleepy clucking fill the air about the Elder's door. Aye, they are long gone. Not even the scant promise of their eggs saved them, so thin was our hope for the coming of spring.

Yet, I prayed for soft rain in the cool of even and clear dawns for the ploughing, and they have come. I have prayed for my lord's return, and he lies down to sleep beside me when night falls. Even now he awaits me at home, and I am eager to return. Ever has his counsel been worth the waiting.

I wish to ask him how to spread our store of seed though it has dwindled to but a pittance of what we once thought needful to sow upon the fields. Aye, we must get it to the soil ere the temptation to grind it for our bread grows too strong. And then what to do? For it shall be many weeks ere the fields bear fruit. Master Herdir's men have needed their cudgels more than once of late and I fear more than heads shall be split asunder ere we find relief. Aye, I would hear what words my lord might say of how we are to spin thin the days upon poor gleaning of the forests until then.

I hear my daughter's laughter in the midst of my musing ere it is then cut short. I startle alert at the lack, gasping and my heart thundering in my ears. The hand holding my chin aloft falls to my lap. There it joins the spindle and meager thread I had not the heart to work. Ah, then next there is her wail. I sigh. _Ai, _so few are the places upon the Angle my daughter will deign to release her hands from my skirts and play freely, and now this. She bursts through the door with Lothel trailing anxiously behind her, the girl's arms warding away all danger it seems but the very air about the child. But my daughter will have none of it, for her brow lowers darkly as she cries, tears streaming down her face.

"Aye, now, _lapsinya_," I say, setting aside my spindle. She climbs sturdily upon my lap, her face a study of righteous hurt.

Elesinda looks up only to smile ere returning to her to work. Mistress Pelara chuckles and waves her son's daughter to her side. The poor girl's look is stricken as she gazes upon the overwrought child, for Elenir buries her face to my breast and wails mightily when I rub her back.

"Best to tell me what came to pass, Lothel," I say and hope my voice kindly though I must raise it to be heard over my daughter's cries.

"Lo'el pushed me," wails the muffled voice of my daughter, rising from where she remains pressed to my breast. She points her accusation at the girl with her small finger and Pelara raises a swift hand to hide her smile.

"Truly, my lady, I did not," the girl protests.

"Aye, you did." My daughter's voice is now sullen.

"I am sure Lothel did not push you down apurpose," I say for poor Lothel's face is piteous in its earnestness.

"I thought you were going to trip. 'Tis why I grabbed you. I did not mean for you to fall."

"There now, _lapsinya_," I say to the small head pressed to me. "You have your apology. Any anger you should now reserve for the ground, not Lothel."

She sniffs and clings the more tightly to my dress. I think my daughter poorly convinced in this moment but hope she shall have no mind for her complaint upon her next awakening.

At that, Mistress Pelara laughs and rises. "Come now, pet," she says and pats Lothel upon her shoulder. "'Tis the best I think you are going to receive. It comes fast upon the child's noon meal and I am sure she tires."

"Aye, Lothel, rest assured," I say, shifting my daughter's weight upon my lap. "She shall forget all upon the morrow. In fact, I believe she will be asking for you again ere the day is done."

Elesinda blows upon her work and waves a hand above it, the better to hasten the drying of the ink.

"Go on now, girl." Lothel looks up into her grandmother's face, her concern better eased. "You are, like as not, just as hungry. Go draw water and I shall see what we can find to eat."

The girl nods against her grandmother's side. When she takes her leave, I see the hint of the woman she may yet become in her face and in the lengthening of her limbs. It brings an ache to my heart I cannot place.

"The Council shall ask for the end of rationing, my lady. Just you wait," Mistress Pelara says as Elesinda shuffles slips of parchment into order.

"Aye, well, they may ask, but unless they also find another manner of multiplying our grain that does not involve sowing it upon the fields, then the answer remains 'no.'"

"My lady!" comes a voice from without. His shadow precedes him, but I know it for Master Fimon. I have been dreading his arrival, though I knew not when it would come to pass.

"Come!" I call and when he enters, he removes his cap and brings his fingers to his brow.

"We have found him," is all he says.

My daughter's small nose digs into my neck where she is snugged. I shift her about so I might rise and then must stumble to keep my feet for the lightness of my head. Pelara's hand comes upon my arm to steady me, faster and more close than Master Fimon's hand, though he offers it.

"Come now,_ little one_," says Pelara to Elenir. "_I shall find thee somewhat to eat as well_."

When I take my leave and put the Elder's door behind me, it is to find my lord's kin, my Great Hound, deep in a drowse beneath the sun beating upon the Elder's house. There he sits breathing deeply, with his face tipped back into the full face of the day and his head resting upon the wall. His beard has thinned and strands of gray now spring from below his lip and upon his temples. I had not thought him so reduced, but there is no lie to be found in the bright light that hollows his cheeks and throws shade upon his sunken eyes.

It takes but a word and soft touch to his shoulder to startle him awake, though loath was I to do it. With that, he stumbles to his feet and, without word, takes in Master Fimon's presence at my back, and then nods. And so we walk together, Master Fimon, Halbarad, and I, past doors that are darkened, gardens gone to grass and seed, and stretches of homes and hearths where now there is silence.

~oOo~

There he is, his features so swole with death and the water in which he had drowned I would not have recognized my lord's reeve had it not been for the wool of his tunic and coat. I think I have no tears left to shed, for I have none now, though piteous is the sight. Entangled in the branches of a fallen beech, the river held him in her grip, pressed in place by waters made swift and deep from the melted snows of the north against a wall of stone at a bend at the river's course. There we stand amidst the roar of the current upon a far bank made muddy by rain and the river's water. There I, Halbarad, Master Fimon, and the men I have given him to command, look upon Master Herdir and knew not what to do for him.

Aye, he is gone. Lost to mischance, he was. When the river rose, he had called men to clear debris and shore up the dams. I doubt not Master Bronon's death weighed heavily upon him, for when his brother, Stevan, fell to the river, Master Herdir was not long behind. Stevan we pulled from the river and, his lungs once full of its water, he recovers under Nesta's care. Days we have spent walking the shoals and riverbanks in search of Master Herdir, for him only to emerge not far from where my lord surprised me with his return and together we pulled reeds from the river bed.

"We could use ropes to secure a boat," says Master Fimon, gesturing at the tall beeches upstream, but then falls silent.

For the water batters both rock and the man caught within the branches of the tree, and in its rush downstream the river sucks all within it beneath the trunk of the tree that lays o'er its path. And not only that, but the tree's fall from above has left the high riverbank soft and treacherous, with naught on which we could fix and lower a man down.

Halbarad shakes his head, his face grim, but it is not his place to decide what is to be done. It is mine. And so it is with a heavy heart that I speak. I cannot think how I shall do what needs to be done. So steady and so kind had he been. And this is how I shall repay him.

"No."

"My lady," says Fimon, shaking his head. "Surely, we cannot just leave him there."

"Would you attempt it?" I ask and he shrugs his face against his shoulder ere he answers.

"No," he says low.

"Nor would I," I reply. "I have no desire to leave him there, either. But neither will I send living men after him, not yet. I can only hope he would understand and would not wish it himself."

Master Fimon looks steadily at the toe of his boot where he drives it into the grass and wet soil, his features tight with his disquiet. I know not his thoughts, but I could guess them should I put my mind to it. I had attended upon Master Bachor o'er the course of his illness, and Fimon and I had been thrown much together. Without an Elder to direct his efforts, Fimon had taken to spending much of his time with my lord's reeve and shouldered much of the burden Master Bachor could no longer bear. I knew more of the man's mind and, I think, he mine.

It is some time ere Fimon nods. 'Tis then he suffers me to lay a hand upon his arm. He will not look at me but blinks to rid himself of the tears that come to him with my touch. His voice is rough when he speaks.

"I will set a watch on him."

I let him go. "Let me know when the river starts to fall and mayhap we can use ropes to clear the tree from where it is trapped and set nets downstream."

"I will think on it, my lady."

"I hope you discover some means of recovering him, for all our sakes."

And then there is naught to do but return Master Fimon's nod and turn away. Halbarad then takes my hand and draws it through the crook of his arm. We lean upon the other and make our way back.

Slow we walk the path to my lord's house, Halbarad carrying my books and I my daughter. There is little to say we have not already said. The sun slides swiftly west and sends shadows beneath our feet. I am hungry, but it is a dull and distant ache, well-worn in our acquaintance with it. It seems not to end, our journey, no matter how short the distance and familiar the road. After some time, my back aches and I must jostle my daughter's weight about so to bring ease to it, for she has fallen to a drowse.

Ah, but my daughter grows heavy! I would wake her and set her down, but her arms wrap so tightly about me. Without comment, Halbarad tugs her grip gently from about my neck and, whispering softly to her to ease her complaints, pulls her tight to his breast with one arm and carries my journal with the other.

~oOo~

I am swift in my ablutions, spattering water upon the floor of the solar in my haste as I wash. From the long chest I pull my best linen dress of a light green, the color of the reeds from the river beyond our pastures, though I know it no longer fits me well nor shows my form to best effect, no matter how I pull at the ribbons that weave through its sides and trail to my feet.

It is said that the women of the Elves wear their hair unbound and uncovered, but I have little time to master this untamed cloud that stands about my head. For I have lost much of its length and have, of late, given little thought to its care. The hair runs thin upon my temples. It is dry and lacks the sheen and strength that once it had for want of oil. For want of time, I run my fingers through its strands, no matter the hairs that break for which I must shake my hand to loosen their grip upon me and catch them up in loose braids about the crown of my head and roll their free lengths upon the back. There I secured it in place with a silver comb affixed with green glass to match the dress. I fly about the room on as swift feet as I dare, collecting my shoes and tossing my abandoned clothing into a pile, for my lord has company below stairs.

When we returned to my lord in his house, he was no longer alone. There standing beside him by the hearth were two tall men of the Eldar race clothed in gray and green cloaks of a hue that shifted like the water of a deep river as it runs through sunlight and shade. They turned when we entered and had I not heard the tale of the sons of Elrond, I would have thought them but one and the same man and my eye fooled by some trick.

"_Mae govannen_," Halbarad said through his surprise, and they nodded solemnly.

"_Mae govannen,_" they said each in turn.

I had taken Elenir from Halbarad so that he might be unburdened to open the door. From my arms, she stared raptly at the twins, her eyes wide and her fingers of one hand playing upon the tip of her ear and tugging at the curls that lay about it.

"_Well met, indeed, Ranger _Halbarad_, kinsman,_" said one with a quick, bright smile. "_Thou art looking well, much better than when last we met._"

Halbarad snorted at this and with a quick glance to my lord, walked to his table.

The other elf gave Halbarad a wry look. _"I beg thee forgive my brother, _Halbarad_. He was our mother's favorite and she failed to curb him many a time when she should have. He is no longer a child and has had quite a few years to make up the lack, but he puts so little effort into it we despair of him ever keeping a civil tongue in his head." _

Halbarad shook his head and huffed as he dropped my journal to the table, leaving me to stand rooted afore our door. "_My thanks to thee, Elladan, but I am sure to have a chance to avenge myself, and soon, too, but not, mayhap, in the presence of a small child._"

At this, Elrohir laughed easily. "_I doubt it greatly. For first thou must come from behind the shield thou makest of Estel's infant daughter. For shame, kinsman! She is far fairer a thing than e'er we thought he could have had a hand in the making_."

So, it seemed, then, they knew Halbarad and were on easy terms. I, on the other hand, the brothers regarded curiously once done with their teasing.

_Ai!_ This is my home! How came they here? My lord's nearest of kin, save Halbarad, but, to my knowledge, ne'er afore have they attended upon him here. And what shall the brothers tell their lady sister, were she to ask? That the tentative beauty of her errant lover's wife fades with the passing years and the mean existence she lives? Will they speak of my lord's grief and the weariness of his days his wife is unable to soothe away?

My daughter protested in my arms and at that I knew I clutched at her too tightly. 'Twas then I came to see my lord's keen gaze upon me. It seemed he was studying me intently, but now his look passed swiftly into resignation and somewhat of regret, as had a dreaded moment finally arrived and he must gird himself to face it.

I am shamed to admit it, but his pain gave me some little solace, for in the brief glance we shared came understanding. My lord reads me easily, and now, I think, there is no hiding the truth.

"Lady," said my lord and lifted a hand to urge me to him.

"Come, my little poppet," Halbarad said brightly to my daughter and drew her gaze upon him and away from the strangers in her home. "We shall away to the garden, hmm? I have somewhat to show you."

"I do," he said to her querying look and she leaned from my arms into his. With that he bore my daughter through the buttery door and I had naught left to do but go to my lord where he awaited me.

"Lady," he said, taking my hand and bringing me forward. "Here you find Elladan and Elrohir, sons of Elrond the Halfelven, Master of Imladris." And here my lord nodded to each in turn.

Their grave faces are alike in their beauty, but in one lies a strength of nose and chin and the other a depth of gaze the color of shadows upon the snow that sets one apart from the other.

"Here you find my wife, Nienelen, the Lady of the Dúnedain," my lord said and refused to release my hand.

They bowed to me in greeting in the manner of the Elves, their look equally grave and searching.

"_Thou art welcome in my home, guests of my lord_," I said and offered a reverence, my lord's grip offering his support as I rose, "_and even more for the love he bears thee as his kin._"

I had no wine to offer them and my face heated for it. The cups they held are filled with an ale I knew was thin for the lack of grain this season. It is bitter to the taste and barely worth the effort to swallow it. What food I had to offer for their even's meal I would not wish to eat myself, had I the choice.

When then I trip down the stairs and out into the hall, my lord's head lifts at the suddenness with which I burst into the room. He is seated at his table, parchments weighted with a heavy seal open afore him. The only company he keeps is the cups, now empty of ale. He is alone. My steps falter.

The last I had seen such a missive had been in the first months within my lord's house. Much shorter in length than this one, but my lord had read it with an intent look. So somber had been his mood after, he had not spoken the rest of the day. At the time, I had thought it would excite much discussion with his kin, for I could not think it contained aught but troubling news. But it was not so. He had put it away and I ne'er saw it among his belongings again.

My eyes must be wide with the shock, for my lord ceases his reading. He folds the letter upon itself and tucks it beneath his journal, his movements slow and deliberate. Had I not known him so well, I would have said his look was untroubled. But I know what it means when my lord's gaze is turned from mine and his tongue is still.

"My lord, are they not to stay?"

"No," says he, rising.

I can think only that my lord sent them away for fear I would make them unwelcome. My heart beats so that my face grows hot. I know not what to make of this new thing. Ever has this love of my lord's ghosted upon the confines of our life. Now, no longer does she slip between the shadows of our hall but stands openly afore our very hearth. Aye, unspeaking and unmoving is she, but no less there, and, I deem, no longer unnamed between us.

"Did you send them away, my lord?"

He frowns gently and shakes his head.

"They would go, no matter what I said," he says and rounds the hearth with unhurried steps.

I do not know what he intends, but it is clear my lord comes to my side, and I stammer, "But, my lord, why would they not stay? Any guests of yours, my lord, I would have made welcome."

But aught else I may protest must wait, for my lord has placed his hands upon my arms and there, his touch stiff and unsure, he studies my face. I know not for what he searches, nor had he found it, but his look softens with regret and he draws me to his breast where he may tuck me beneath his chin and clasp the back of my head. By the weight of his silence, I know of the anguish lodged in his heart. At that, I cannot forebear from resting upon him in turn. There I can feel the beating of his heart and rise and fall of his breath. There, he speaks no words, but the gentleness of the thumb that caresses the nape of my neck fills my heart to aching.

He takes a breath as though to speak, and then halts. His voice low, as should he not dare give his thoughts speech, at length he asks, "How long have you known?"

I know what he would wish me to say, but it seems a cruelty to tell him the truth.

"I would have brought no shame upon you, my lord," I say, my voice small against my lord's breast.

"I did not think it, lady," he says and shakes his head from where he rests upon me. His sigh warms the skin of my brow. "Indeed, it seems I owe you an even greater debt of forbearance than I had thought."

When I do not give answer, he goes on, "Think you they have learned naught of the suffering of the Dúnedain in their time here?" He peers down at me. "Nay, lady. Be easy. The signs are easily read and they would not wish to eat where it might mean we would go hungry for it, nor would they wish to force you to plead with them to stay. No, they took their leave and asked me to say they wished to meet you again when they had time to take their pleasure of it."

"Did they truly have none to spare now?"

"Mayhap not, their need is great and presses them on."

"And so the news they brought, my lord, it is urgent?"

"Aye," he says and, with a deep breath, releases me.

"Come lady," he says, and turns away. Still those averted eyes. Still that resigned look. "Find our daughter and bring her to the table. I will watch over her, should you like, while you prepare our meal. We will have much to discuss, but let us wait until later."

~oOo~

"But you have just returned!" I can do naught but stare at my lord. I know I say little of good sense but so great is my shock I have not the strength to defend my tongue from the press of my ill-formed thoughts.

Here we sit at his table, our meal cleared, our daughter at rest in the solar above the stairs. Here my lord asked Halbarad for his report on the events in the lands about us.

"Aye, Melethron could go, could he not?" my lord had asked. His thoughts, it seemed, tended more toward the map on which he had clustered white stones to our west than to the news his kin had relayed.

"Aragorn," Halbarad said and my lord's gaze snapped to him for the wary sound to his voice. "Melethron died last summer.

"Aye, you said." He rubbed at his brow. "Lathril, then."

"My lord," his kin said wearily, but got little chance to continue.

"Aye, I was there when we found him." My lord pressed his fingertips into the hair about his brow and closed his eyes. It seemed he struggled to temper his breathing ere he could speak again. "Send Haldren."

Halbarad toyed with his stylus. He looked not at his kin but upon the hinged wax tablet open afore him on the table. "Who would you wish I assign to the escort to Imladris in his place?"

"I do not know!" my lord snapped from behind his hands, and Halbarad's gaze flicked to him briefly.

My lord then dropped his hands from his face in the stillness that followed.

"Do what you think best, Halbarad," he said, his voice low. "But the men at Sarn Ford must be prepared to hold it against an assault like we have not seen against it in this Age, and I cannot be there. You must go in my stead. We must hold it. It matters not what else we must sacrifice to it."

With that, Halbarad nodded and closed his tablet, tucking the stylus into the leather that bound it.

And now, it comes to my lord and I to speak, for he has asked me for my report of the Angle's readiness. My lord's kinsman has taken to carving some small thing as we talk and sits upon a bench at the far side of the hearth. I know not what he crafts, but with the rising of our voices, he bends fixedly over it as would it lessen the room he takes in the hall.

"And so long absent. It has been but a handful of days!"

"I do only what I must, lady."

"And what of your folk of the Angle? Will you not see to them?"

"It is my care for them that drives the necessity of it!"

Had I thought my lord's resolve a thing of iron afore, I had not known its full measure. He stares at me tightly from across his table, his face is as stone with his chosen course and the displeasure of having to defend it to his lady wife.

"Lady, we have no time to be idle," he insists firmly. "The hour is now upon us. The Shadow is poised to fall, and either we move this instant or we break beneath it. We must set aside all but what is most needful."

Ah, my lord need not speak to me of sacrifice. I know it well. Had my lord spoken of a debt of forbearance not just hours afore? Mayhap he could spend some small amount out of it now.

"And what of your daughter? She knows little enough of her father already."

He presses his lips thinly at the question. "It will matter naught for our daughter should I go. She will not be here."

"What are you saying?" My hands have come of themselves to grip the edge of the wood of the table.

"When the men are gathered to take her there, she will leave for Rivendell. It is only there I can make her safe."

The ache in my fingers is a distant thing for the flight of thoughts in my head. I cannot make sense of aught my lord is saying. What have I been about, all this time? For what the terror at each unbidden noise below the stairs when I sleep curled about my daughter at night? For what did I betray my closest kin and visit banishment and death upon folk with whom I have shared bread and hearth? _Ai! _And the plague of doubt at each visit we must take to the barrows? For this?

"My lord! I do not understand! How can this be? You had me build a fortress of hope for your people, and you would now abandon it in your own despair?"

My lord shakes his head, his face grim. "'Tis not despair that moves me, lady. The House of Isildur must endure. With all my heart, I would that I had sent our children earlier. I will not make that mistake again. I will not delay my choice."

_Ai!_ I gasp for the pain of it. "You would take my child from me?"

"No, lady," he says, frowning. "Is it not clear? You will attend her there."

"No."

At this Halbarad's face lifts of a sudden from where he sits.

My lord scrubs harshly at his face. "Lady, we have just spoken of this. My men are needed elsewhere. I do not have the means to protect both the Shire and you!"

"And what of you? Are you to travel with your daughter as well, my lord?"

At this, his hands drop to the table with a thud, scattering the stones spread there and sending one skittering o'er the edge to clatter against the floor. "No!"

I yet stare at him agape, our disbelief at the other mirrored in our faces. Halbarad has risen and abandoned all attempts at being overlooked. He turns a pained face to us and clutches the small wooden thing in his hand so I think it might snap in two.

"Lady," my lord says. "Have you not heard me? I have other business of great urgency. It cannot wait."

I shake my head. "No, I will not go." I say and anger flashes harsh upon my lord's face.

"You have little time, lady, to reconsider your opposition to this course. I send my daughter to Rivendell, and soon."

I rise from my seat upon the bench. I am done. There is no more to say. "Send my daughter from me should your heart have grown so cruel you could do such a thing, but I care not what you say. You have not been here. You have not seen, nor touched, nor tasted the bitterness of what you ask. I will not go!"

My lord thrusts himself up from his chair, heaving it behind him, his face hard. "You forget yourself, lady! Do not accuse me of brutality and indifference, and do not put yourself in my place. Mine is the charge of the preservation of our people. 'Tis not your decision to make. Should I say you are to go, _then go thou shalt!_"

I think my lord regrets his words swiftly upon their saying. He has fallen silent, though he yet returns my glare. But his words cannot be unsaid and, stiffly, I drop my eyes. Above our heads comes a thin wail.

"_Should it please thee, __hîr nín__, I will not._" I turn my back upon him and abandon him for the stairs to the solar.

I can tell by its sound that my lord lets loose a noise of vexation and bewilderment.

"Confound the woman!" I hear behind me said low but with great fervor.

By the creak of wood beneath my lord, I know he lets himself fall heavily to his chair.

"In this, of all things, she chooses to defy me."

I can hear Halbarad's voice behind me. "You ask more than you know," he says, his voice low and meant privately.

He must have gone to lay a touch upon his kin, for next I hear the cuff that knocks his hand away.

"Leave off, Halbarad!" my lord commands over sounds of scuffling. "She speaks naught but from foolish pride -"

"Aragorn! Be still and listen to me!"

A quick glance behind me as I enter the stairs and I see that Halbarad attempts to pin my lord's shoulders to his chair with his greater strength. He seeks his kin's eye and speaks earnestly. "She has grown careless with herself. Do you not see it?"

At this, they fall still, breathing heavily, and my lord stares up at his kin. I turn away and proceed up the stairs ere I can hear aught else Halbarad might say. I know not were they exchanging angry words in quiet, strained voices or even had my lord aught to say in reply.

After the heat and noise of the hall, the stairwell seems cool in comparison, though my cheeks are on fire. For I am overcome with a great pain I cannot understand. It burns deep within my breast and steals the very breath I need for climbing. I blink and grasp the wall for support, else I think I might fall. I do not go far, for I cannot think of what I am to do next. I do not understand. From whence come these tears that blind my eyes? What am I to do? Surely with all that must be done, there is somewhat I am to do. Ne'er has the need been more great. _Ai! _Should it only come to me!

"_Mamil!_" I hear in response to the noise of my feet upon the risers. I rush to her.

I hear naught from below in the hall, for I have set myself to soothing my child. I sit upon the edge of the trundle bed and draw a hand down Elenir's back. She lies upon her side, hiccupping atimes and humming with her attempt to still her own tears.

"'Twas naught," I whisper. "Take no heed. I am here."

I freeze at the sound of light footsteps upon the risers and the nigh imperceptible sense of my lord framed in the opening of the stairs at my back.

"Lady?" he calls softly. When I do not answer he stirs as would he come near.

"_Baw! Daro!_" I say and he halts.

I do not turn to him, nor raise my head to look upon him.

"Leave us be."

He does not speak, but for a long moment, stands in the dimness of the solar ere he turns away. He obeys my command, and his footsteps lead him softly away.

~oOo~

At the fall of night, beside my lord I shall lay upon our bed. There we shall be sheltered by the wooden canopy above and the curtains about us. There he shall listen to my breath, that faint sighing in and out of air that tells him the woman beside him is real and not borne of his slumbers.

There he shall tell of watching as my lids flutter and my hands move upon the pillow, wondering what paths I walk in dreams. When I moan and my brow draws tight while my limbs wrench as were it against some unseen thing that fetters them, he will awaken me with a touch.

For I dream of my lord's house made a husk of black timbers. From his place standing at the hearth, he peers at me from below as he were hemmed into a narrow space and all about him is shadow. The wind through the ruined walls blows upon us, stirring the ash. I can recall fear and flight and the echoes of cruel laughter, and the ripple of heat and thick smoke that arose high about me. In the way of dreams, I knew not whose hand had set my lord's family home ablaze, but was plagued with the thought it may have been my own.

When my lord speaks low of the shaded thoughts that come at night, he shall draw my head upon his breast. Only then, with his hand heavy against my cheek and fingers twined about my hair, shall I close my eyes and truly rest, my head rising with his breath as were I riding with my lord upon the waves of sleep.

~oOo~


	56. Chapter 55

~ Chapter 55 ~

_'But Arwen went forth from the House, and the light of her eyes was quenched, and it seemed to her people that she had become cold and grey as nightfall in winter that comes without a star. Then she said farewell to Eldarion, and to her daughters, and to all whom she had loved; and she went out from the city of Minas Tirith and passed away to the land of Lórien, and dwelt there alone under the fading trees until winter came.''_

LOTR: Appendix A: Here Follows a Part of the Tale of Aragorn and Arwen

~oOo~

_~ TA 3018 2__nd__ day of Nárië: Ai! I must see to the sheep! _

~oOo~

'Tis chill for a day of late spring. A low screen of clouds roiled above our heads, having reached down from the north o'er the night. The day dawned dimly. With so few beasts upon it, the grass has sprung thick and tall upon the pasture. A brisk wind blows from the north and whips the meadow into waves, and my daughter and I seem to be adrift upon a sea of green.

"Come, _lapsinya!"_ I call as I peer across the meadow only to flap at the fly that seeks to settle yet again upon the back of my neck.

Ah! A plague on them. I had hoped the wind would have deterred their flight, but the further we walk, the more of them are to be found. They come with the wet and settle upon man and beast alike. Ah! Curse them! I slap at my neck. Their bite stings.

"Elenir?"

Ah, there's the child. She has plucked long grasses and swings them about, singing some indistinct tune. She runs to catch up, but then squats to examine somewhat more closely in the turf.

Once we passed beneath the spreading arms of the oak tree and through the gate, she had kicked out of my grasp and toddled along behind me. We come nigh to the press of the shaws upon my lord's pastures and still no sign of the sheep.

The day was bittersweet, for though bees clambered in the petals of the plum trees, the thin light of the sun waxed and waned swiftly behind waves of clouds roiled by a cold wind. To those below, it seemed we were sunk beneath deep waters and peered up from their depths at the surface of a tumulted sea in which all but the greatest of ships would founder.

My daughter had awoken with a mind determined to wrest joy from the day. I did not find her in the trundle bed, snug beneath her bedclothes. No, indeed, for she had hidden herself in the crevice between the posts of our bed and the wall afore which it stood. I would not have known it but for the giggling issuing from that spot in which only her small form could fit, and the little fingers that played upon the wooden post where I could see them. And when she would spring forth and bounce upon her toes, I made sure to make a great show of startlement, there to set her laughing and scuttling back to her hiding place to enact the play all again.

My lord and I spent much of the early hours of the day away from the other's company. I awoke to find I was alone in our bed. My lord was not below stairs, nor had he left word of when to expect him next. 'Twas but by the sight of his pack by the great door and the sword he had left in its place upon the wall behind his table I knew him not gone.

And so, I took up my day with no word as to when I must farewell my daughter. Halbarad, I came to find, had taken his steed and my lord's horses to the farrier's, there to see to their shoes. I knew, then, we had not long and it sat as a cold stone in my belly. Those sundered by the Wild are not like to see the other again.

Once, I had been much used to leaving her in Elesinda's care when about the Angle in pursuit of my duties, but when Elesinda sickened, could no longer do so. And, in truth, even ere that I left her behind seldom, unless forced to it. And so, my daughter and I spent much of the early morn together. There, first, we visited the healer's workroom. I had intended to meet Pelara, for we were to inventory Nesta's supplies. But she was not there, and I found Nesta alone.

It seemed we are low in all things she might need and Nesta, herself, heart-sick. I sent her from the workroom where she need not list all the ways in which her stores were insufficient and add to her weary spirit. When done, I found her sitting upon the grass with the young green heads of yarrow nodding about her in her garden. My napping daughter nestled in her lap and Nesta wiped silently at her own tears so that she would not disturb the child. She refused to say what troubled her, but begged I leave Elenir to her care while she slept. When I returned to retrieve her from my next errand, I found my daughter much absorbed in examining a painted wooden top and begging the healer to spin it for her and set it whirling about the floor. Both she and the mistress seemed in refreshed spirits for their time together.

'Twas yet early when we returned home. There it was to find my lord again at home, but much occupied with Halbarad reviewing the movements of his men and their reports. I had no need to speak to my husband, nor his kinsman, and so spent little time in the hall but for passing through from buttery to pantry to garden.

When my daughter tired of her pleas for my attention, Halbarad set himself to amusing her while my lord sat at his table repairing his gear and I took to the pantry to gather what may be spared for her journey. I gathered what little we had of dried fruits, mushrooms, and nuts and set to preparing the dough with our ration of flour for a plain, fried biscuit to send with my lord's men.

Elenir sat with my lord's kinsman upon a bench afore the hearth and put him to feeding her poppet from a bowl of pottage she conjured from the air, all this while my lord looked on. Having given up all pretense of attending to the letters and lists and gear afore him, he leaned his chin upon his hand, his face soft and fond.

And when that no longer diverted her, Halbarad set Elenir to tumbling about the hearth. She pattered on her small feet to the farthest corner of the hall, her giggling trailing behind her, only to turn and find my lord's kin looking upon her in horror. She then growled, plummeting across the stones to fling herself upon him where he sat. He threw himself to the floor, clutching her in a wild tangle to his breast and, to her father's laughter, crying out as she pummeled him with her small arms and legs. Once he had enough, she pushed herself to standing and, laughing at his pleas for mercy, fled back to the corner to do it all again.

This they repeated until Halbarad, hardened Ranger of the North, was weary and begged for her pity and set her upon her feet.

'Twas then my daughter caught sight of the light linen of my wrap about me, the spindle hooked to my belt with its wad of roving, and the scarf upon my hair.

Without delay, the child plunged across the floor and, unaccountably, halted midway, falling to her knees and wailing. She drew breath only to scream and lay her little face down upon the stones of the floor, clutching and slapping at her head.

'Twas only when I had picked her up and settled to kissing and soothing away her tears that I looked up to find my lord watching. His hands stilled upon his task, he turned a stricken look upon his daughter. I knew not his gaze when he directed it to me, for I could not return it. Shame settled a heavy hand upon me and turned me away.

In the turmoil that was the revelation of my lord's plans I had neither brought the sheep in the night afore nor set them to their pasture at the breaking of our fast upon rising. With so few of the ewes left, in my distraction I may have missed their complaint.

I shake the precious little grain I can spare in its sack and call for the sheep yet again as I climb. Ah! I have not the time for this. 'Tis of my own doing but I have little patience for it. Had I kept my head, my daughter and I would not be spending the last of our time together in weary wandering about the pasture in search of a flock that has no doubt found some low-lying place and sheltered there from the wind. Surely, I shall tramp up one hummock or another and see them just beyond, lying about in the grass only to interrupt them from their chewing.

The air about me darkens for the scudding of the clouds and I set myself to climbing the last hillock ere the end of the pasture. Should they not be here, I know not where else to look.

The bag of grain rattles to a thump at my feet.

Oh! Oh, _ai!_ Beyond the rise they are there. They lie in bundles of blood-soaked wool and splintered bone upon the green of the pasture. Clouds of flies buzz greedily about them, for the ewes' bellies are torn asunder and the ground about them dark for it. 'Tis not the work of one wolf, nor a pack, nor hunger. That I have seen afore. They would have killed a few and been satisfied. This is a dozen or more dead. What could have done such a thing?

I step back from the rise. _Ai!_ How far the house behind us?

A shadow emerges from beyond a clump of bloody wool and the wind whips about, driving a rankness o'er the meadow as had the very gates of Udûn opened upon the corruption wrought there. Crouched low, eyes burn from behind blood and bone, deep as a forge open against the dark of night. Oh, _ai! _The tales seem but a pale shade of this… this, thing, that pulls all light and breath from about it as it rises.

"_Mamil? Mamil? Mamil?_" Elenir's small voice babbles behind me.

_Ai!_ What possessed me to bring my daughter?

"Elenir!" I call, stepping back and stretching a hand to my child, though I shake and my voice is too thin for her to hear no matter what force I attempt to bring to bear. "Come to _Ammë_."

"_Mamil!_" she demands, her thoughts only for this thing in the turf that has captured her attention.

I dare not look away else it is sure to spring from where it crouches its body close to the earth and stares at me.

"Elenir!" I insist louder. I can taste naught but the tang of metal in my mouth.

Its tongue darts between sharp, white teeth as it catches our scent upon the wind, and a long pale limb eases forth from the shadow beneath its body to place a soft step toward me.

"_Come here, woman, where I can see thee,_" it calls in a voice that echoes hollowly in my head.

_Ai, no, no, no, no! Nienna, have pity! _

Back I stumble and only once hidden again below the rise of ground do I twist about and snatch up my daughter and clamber down the slope. Startled into grabbing onto me, her small arms cling to me and her voice whimpers in my ear.

I dare not look back but run over the hillocks and across the turf, the meadow a blur beneath my feet. My daughter's head bobs against my chin setting my teeth to clacking, and the spindle bangs against my hip, swinging wildly from its hook. The grasses, once soft and inviting, are as sharp-edged switches that cling and tear at my boots. Yet, I hear little but the pounding of blood in my ears and the sound of laughter that follows.

From the corner of my eye, I catch a flash of eye kindled with a fell flame ere a grinning mouth darts in and nips at my flank. I scream and stumble away from its teeth as I fly.

"_Run,_" it cries and laughs, its tongue dripping steam. I speed forward only for it to dart away again and keep pace at a distance.

My small daughter is heavy and the very air slashes at my throat I gulp at it so.

_Ah, Elbereth, Lady Kindler!_ I move with all the grace of an over-laden cart while it glides through the grasses at an easy lope. It husbands its strength and wears mine away. I know where is the gate, but each step closer to it sets me in the path of slashing teeth.

Dark shadows skim beneath the heads of the blowing grass and laughter echoes against hummock and stone wall.

"_Run! Run, mother, run!"_

More voices take up the call as one and yet another beast darts in to snap at me as I run. I lurch from the slash of their teeth and cry out. They howl in mirth, dancing away to do it yet again until, in my flight, I am caught up upon the edge of the pasture.

Branches lash at my face. I press my daughter's head to me as she screams. Teeth latch upon my skirts from behind so that I stumble through the edge of a small copse of trees nigh upon the pasture wall, only to be let go as quickly as they had caught upon me.

"No!" I cry and thrust my weight back from the reach of snapping jaws that appear of a sudden ahead. Its spittle alights upon me and sends up the sharp scent of burning wool from my skirts. I twist about so I might yet find a path free of them only to stumble back ere the slashing fangs of yet another beast can latch upon me.

"My lord!" I scream and lunge away from a third set of teeth. The beast bounds to me and, in a leap, snatches at my scarf where it has come undone and trails behind me. My head jerks roughly upon my neck and I must stumble aright against the weight of my daughter in my arms. Oh, I must keep to my feet or all is lost.

A great howling arises from the beasts as it shakes the bundle of my scarf in its jaws, wrenching its head upon its thick neck and sending the cloth whipping ere letting it fly.

My daughter has gone silent where I clutch her to me. She makes no noise but the hitch of breath where she weeps and clings to my dress. I have no breath left and can only gasp for air to fill my lungs and moan, but it matters not. There is nowhere else to run. They have caught me up against the stone wall about the pasture. They have herded me so far from the gate, no call could possibly rouse my lord or his kin.

_Ai! _ 'Tis done. And they know it. There they pace beyond reach at their leisure and watch me with their strangely eager eyes.

"_Come, woman, why cease thy running?_" says one, its tongue lolling and red. "_The house is not far._"

"_Aye, mayhap thou mayest make it there yet, should thou be unburdened._"

"_And we busy filling our bellies. We could help thee with that, mother," _says the third. It fixes its keen eyes upon me and, slowing in its pacing, slinks low to the ground.

"No!" I scream. _"Get away, thou fiend. Thou shalt not have her!"_

It but laughs and creeps upon my left where I must turn to keep it in my sight.

With that, I am buffeted from the back by a great weight. I trip over somewhat hard and am knocked to the ground, my daughter flying from my arms as I fall.

_Ai! No, no, no, no! _

I scramble about upon the dirt and bat at teeth that nip and catch upon hair and dress and sleeve. I must get my feet beneath me! Where is Elenir! Where is she? Where is my daughter!

There! She shrieks in fear and a glimpse of her sobbing face and fingers outstretched for me tears at my flesh with greater pain than the knives that this beast has for teeth. Beneath the thin boughs of the willow, her fingers work as would she pluck me from the air.

I catch upon somewhat slender and hard in the grass and, wrenching it from the grip of the turf in which it lies, I launch myself to my feet and thrash it about. Some strange high sound rises about me, and only later do I know it for my own voice.

"My lord!" I cry and sob for breath.

Jaws snap afore my face and I flail the switch at the sight. The beast leaps back, licking its lips where I struck it.

At this, the beasts fall silent and still. No breath heaves their sides. No sounding of the air stirs their muzzles, but, crouched low, they stare at me with their glowing eyes and a deep throbbing upon the air arises from their stillness.

"_Oh, Child, thou shalt wish thou hadst not,"_ a beast says as it steps forth. Its sharp gaze pins me in place. _"The scion of Draugluin am I. I have no need for thy blood to satisfy my thirst. Thy pain is satisfaction enough. There are others who might make good use of thee ere we feast upon thy body."_

With this, I draw a sharp breath and fly upon it, flailing the branch wildly. "_I care not. She is mine, thou fiend of Morgoth! Thou canst not have her!_"

It snaps at me as it seeks to gain the branch and pull it from my grasp. It is then one of the remaining beasts arises from where it crouches low. Its eyes are trained not upon me, but upon the small child behind where I stand. Aye, I have heard the tales too oft to not know what comes next. When it reaches her, it shall snap its jaws about my daughter's head and shake her silent.

"My lord!" I sob, but it comes out no more than a smothered wail, drowned beneath my daughter's shrieks of fear.

I choke and swing wildly and the beast afore me snarls, darting in to slash its teeth against the air. I catch it upon its eye and though it may cringe away, it is for but a brief instant and another beast circles behind where I cannot see.

"Aragorn!" I scream, the force of my cry blinding me.

Thundering across the pasture on his warhorse, bare of saddle and holding onto his flanks with his knees comes my lord with his naked sword raised in his hand. He clings close to his mount's neck as they pound toward us. My lord slides from his mount into a run and calls out harsh commands, leaving the horse to guard his back. Rising and whirling about, my lord's gelding screams and strikes at the beasts with his sharpened hooves. Kicking out with his hind leg, he catches full upon a beast and sends it hurtling aside with a yelp that is as quickly silenced. The horse has followed swiftly and stomps, rising and falling upon it.

His sword bright as flame in the thin light and his voice a fearsome roar, my lord flies upon the beast that creeps toward his daughter.

It is then I am upon my back and gasping for air in a rush of the stink of the beast's breath and the pain of its claws scrabbling against me. Patient and snarling in sudden feints just out of reach, it waited until my gaze was upon my lord and daughter to press its advantage. Claws rake at my side. They rip at linen and catch upon my belt. _Ai! _ It pins my arms to me so I cannot move! Teeth snap and slash at my face and neck. Foam flecks from its mouth and the stench of burning flesh arises from where it falls upon me.

I kick at it with all my might, but though I land a blow that thrusts it from me, it falls swiftly upon me again, swinging its underbelly away from the threat of my booted feet and grabbing at the meat of my arm below my shoulder. Jaws seize upon me in a bright burst of pain so that I cry out. The beast yanks and jerks upon me and it seems it might tear the very limb from my shoulder.

And then it is as had we taken flight and I bump across turf and root. I know not how it came to be in my hand, but I have torn the spindle that bangs upon my hip from its hook and with a cry swing my arm and jab the metal shaft of it at the beast. At its yelp, I fall from its grip and a great gout of blood falls upon me in a burst so foul that I gag at the taste.

It snarls and gnashes its sharp teeth and leaps upon me again, but my lord's shadow falls upon me as he towers above. I hardly know him. His face a grotesque mask of rage, he brings his sword down in a terrible thrust upon the back of the beast, crushing the breath from me as it falls. My lord kicks and heaves the dead weight from me. Then, pulling his sword from the beast with one hand, he reaches down and yanks me to my feet with the other so my head spins.

"Take her to the house!" he yells. His eyes wild, he thrusts me toward Elenir and I flail to keep my feet.

It is only then I hear it, the distant howls and laughter ringing amidst the trees that skirt the pasture.

"My lord!" He could not possibly mean to stay.

"Our child, lady! Halbarad awaits! Go! Run!" he commands ere turning away. He whistles sharply, and his gelding breaks off pounding the beast into the mud and grass of our pasture to trot to his master.

I grab up my daughter and run.

Halbarad stands tall and finely balanced upon the rock wall beside the gate to my lord's toft. There, having grabbed his longbow from where it rests beside the great door, he might guard both the door through the garden and my path as I run to it. He has been at it some time, for, as I near, I pass darkening fur and limbs and white, white teeth. About them rises a miasma of heat and smoke where their _fëa_ unknits from their flesh and burns the ground where they fell. The stink fouls the air above the meadow. Bolt nocked to the string, Halbarad scans the fields and pastures for slinking shadows upon them.

The beasts may have withdrawn a little at the fierceness of his defense, but still their snarls and howls echo about the pasture. In my flight, I know not the rustle of grass behind me as the wind or should I next feel jaws close upon me again and take me down in sight of my own house.

Once we draw near, Halbarad drops down from the stones and leaps into a run. I think he races to take my daughter to make us the faster, but he does not slow.

"Go to the house!" he shouts, the wind of his passage snatching at his words. "Bar the doors and shutters!"

He pauses but the length of a heartbeat and draws back the string of his bow to let fly a bolt. It sings past my ear so close I could have touched it and halts of a sudden in a high-pitched yelp behind me.

I stumble up the stairs to the solar and run across the boards heedless of the pounding of my feet. There I thrust my daughter into the small crevice behind the head of our bed.

_"Stay and be silent!"_ I command and drag the low chest afore it. So frightened is she, she huddles to the floor and remains still in that small, dark space.

I leave her there to rattle back down the stairs and burst into the hall where all is in disarray. Papers spill from the table and flutter, sunk to the floor by the heavy seal upon them. Black ink pools and soaks into the wood of my lord's table and the fine linen upon it. My lord's chair tilts and rests where it struck the banner behind it, tearing a great rent in the cloth. The bench by the fire tips upon its side and crockery tumbles upon the hearth. The housing of my lord's sword lies upon the floor where he had flung it. I trip over it in my haste and catch myself against the settle. Pain explodes through my arm so I can only gasp and cling to the wood. _Ai! _I must move.

The doors I can both close and bar, but the windows of my lord's hall are very tall and the shutters that close them are heavy. I wrestle with the long pole that stands in the corner by the buttery but the hooks upon the shutters refuse to catch. It seems I can do naught but make a horrid din against the shutters and scream my vexation at them.

And then I am standing in the solar at the head of stairs, my daughter still and quiet in her hiding place behind my back. I have been standing here for some time. How long, I know not. My eye burns for the blood slipping down my skin and all about seems in a red haze. From whence had I taken up the knife? But it is in my hand. I have it raised in a vain attempt at defense. It is my lord's and long and keen of edge. I blink at it.

A banging rends the air and echoes through the hall as had the buttery door been shuddering beneath a sustained assault for some time until it has loosened in its moorings. The blade plucks light from the air and there it trembles upon the wall about the stairs. And then comes the sound of wood splintering and swift steps that pad across the stone of the hall.

A shadow crosses the bottom of the stair. From some distant place, I know I gasp for air and clap a hand over my mouth to still the noise. For surely, Halbarad is dead. My lord is dead. And soon there will be none left to protect the small child secreted in that dark space behind me. At this, the light from the hall at the bottom of the stairs gutters out.

_Ai! Elbereth Star-Kindler,_ give me strength!

Lifting his face to peer into the gloom of the solar, it is my lord. With him, he carries his sword at the ready. It is red with blood and dark with matted fur. About him he is in shadow but for the face he lifts to gasp at the sight of me, and I see him as were he at a great distance below and I high above him and the foul smell of smoke about us.

"You did not answer!" he cries and leaps up the stairs.

"Elenir?" he asks as he comes upon me swiftly.

"She is not harmed," I manage. My legs suddenly boneless, I drop his knife in a clatter of metal and sink to the floor at the top of the stairs and sit there trembling.

~oOo~


	57. Chapter 56

~ Chapter 56 ~

_'Aragorn looked at them, and there was pity in his eyes rather than wrath; for these were young men from Rohan, from Westfold far away, or husbandmen from Lossarnach, and to them Mordor had been from childhood a name of evil, and yet unreal, a legend that had no part in their simple life; and now they walked like men in a hideous dream made true, and they understood not this war no why fate should lead them to such a pass. _

"_Go"' said Aragorn. "But keep what honour you may, and do not run! And there is a task which you may attempt and so be not wholly shamed.''_

ROTK: The Black Gate Opens

~oOo~

_~ TA 3018 2__nd__ day of Nárië: Master Fimon reports no sign of any living sheep from my lord's gift of my dower. All we had left are now accounted for. There are none left._

~oOo~

Soft voices of men arise from down the stairs to mingle with the rising wind rustling through the thatch. The solar goes dark with the passing of clouds and the dimness brings a chill that the next breaking of light does not warm.

My daughter is asleep. I have sung her eyes to their closing, easing away the fright with the lullabies of my father's house.

"Lady," a voice calls softly from the bottom of the stairs.

'Tis my lord. The hall below is now quiet, and his men gone. My lord calls to me, yet I cannot draw my gaze away from my daughter's sweetly breathing form nor walk down the flight of stairs away from her.

"Lady," he calls again, and I sigh and tear my gaze away. I ease Elenir's head from my shoulder and rise from the trundle bed.

From the top of the stairs, his face is a pale light in the shadows of the bottom of a well. Red light and shadow flicker about him, lit as he is by the fire of the hearth behind him. For a moment, in my reluctance, all is still but the rising wind seeping through the shutters and sifting through the thatch of my lord's house.

"Come!" he commands softly, lest his daughter stir. "Let me see to your wounds."

I touch the linen beneath my sleeve, surprised to find it stiff. For all I had washed away dark, foul blood from the skin where I was hurt, it seems I had forgotten them. The touch brings a sudden bloom of pain.

"Come," he says again when I turn away to catch a glimpse of my daughter snug beneath her bedclothes. "Lady," he says and here he falters. "_I saw thee running_."

From the bottom of the stairs he peers up uncertainly and lifts a hand to gentle my descent. There he awaits me, and once I am upon him, takes my hand in his grip and leads me into the hall.

He has pulled his chair from behind his table and set it afore a bench by the hearth, so he may lay out his gear and seat me across from him. He built up the fire and there hangs a small pot in which water comes swiftly to a boil. There he leads me without comment.

"Sit," he commands and points at the bench as he takes up a bit of cloth and swings the pot from the fire.

My scarf I would not wish back, and my wrap lies upon the pasture I know not where. I had run shears through the cloth of my sleeve from wrist to shoulder in my haste. Once he settles himself in his chair across from me, he parts the folds of my sleeve and, taking my hand about my wrist, sets to unwinding the linen wrapped about my arm. The sinews of my shoulder ache with the weight of my own limb and my lord's gentle pull upon it. Seeing my face, my lord releases me and, turning away, rolls a blanket to bolster my arm so he may tend to me without causing undue pain.

The strips of linen are stiff with dried blood and my lord must dampen and pull on them. The pain and trickle of blood his care releases are a distant thing, for my lord has now set out a pot of _rûdh-glaew _salve_._ He may sing in strange words over my wounds in a low, soft voice, but I hear it not. He may press hard upon bruised flesh of arm and face to bring blood to the surface, but I feel it not. The warmth of the fire brings with it the smell of wine and the bitterness of cropleek and ox bile. I know naught but the press of a small, closed room and the strain of days of care and waiting above stairs. It is not until my lord has unfolded a square of cloth and from it drawn fresh stems of _athelas_ and there rubbed the leaves over the warm pot are my eyes opened and I see my lord's hall.

My lord watches me closely, though his hands are busy with folding the cloth upon itself. He frowns, his brow creased with concern.

I had hoped the scent of vervain, rosemary, or lavender, or the newly unfurled buds of plum blossoms might steal throughout the hall. But they do not. There is naught of the scent of a garden, whether it be mine or my father's. But, too, no longer does the smell of wine and oxgall press upon me. In their place, I smell naught but the sharp tang of woodfire and the scent that arises from my lord's skin when warmed by the sun or his efforts.

"Drink this," he commands, and hands me a cup from which rises a thin thread of steam.

When he brewed it, I am uncertain, but I take it in my hand and sip from it. 'Tis bitter with willow bark and valerian, but I drink it all under his watchful eye. When he has taken the cup from me and set it down, he speaks again.

"I have seen many men treated for such bites as you bear, lady, and few do so with so little complaint."

"I have already done this, my lord."

"'Tis no harm to do it again and indeed will do you a good." With this, he dips the cloth into the pot and then presses it to my cheek. It is hot, but not unbearable, and soothes the burn of the air upon open flesh. With each pass of the cloth, the pain eases, as does the look upon my lord's face.

"We are very lucky the bite was to hold, not to rend. I think the wounds will not poison, lady, but we will do this again and must keep them clean and dry."

I nod, and he goes on to refresh the cloth and lave the wounds upon my arm. Still he looks upon me keenly but still I am silent through his spreading the salve thinly upon brow and cheek, and neck and arm, and then refreshing the binding of the wounds upon my arm. Throughout it all, I listen to the whistling of the wind above our heads and the snapping of the fire, and the soft sounds of my lord's breath as he works. It is not until he has fashioned a sling and laid my arm in it, he speaks again.

"Lady, had I known the tool you use in your spinning was so deadly, I would have seen to outfitting all my men with one," he says as he clears the bench of bloodied rags and the tools of his craft.

Mayhap he had meant to lighten my mood but at his words I turn my head from him.

"Forgive me, my lord," I say, and it is a wonder he hears it.

"I know naught of weapons and war," I go on when he says naught, but has stilled and sits quietly waiting for me to speak further. "Yet I have presumed to know the bounds of your House's safety. I have usurped your place, doubted you when you were within your rights and only wished I and your child well."

"I have no wish to demand apologies from you, lady. I send my men to the House of Elrond with their return. Though the weres will have drawn off for now, I have not the time to search them out should they not find them, and I can spare no other. I shall send our daughter with them. Will you not go?"

"As it please you, my lord," I say, my voice grown small, whereupon he falls still and then lets loose a loud noise of displeasure and fairly throws the rags in his hand to the bench.

"Lady," he says, his voice stern, "have I ever demanded your submission?"

I do not manage to say it, though by the flicker of light in his eyes I know my look recalls for him his words of the day afore. Ne'er afore had my lord raised his voice to me and I think it brings him shame, for next he draws a great breath and quickly masters himself.

"Nay, I should not have spoken to you so. I will not demand you submit," he says and then takes my hand in both of his.

After a long moment in which his head is bowed and his face is grim, my lord sighs and turns me so I face him. He keeps my hand clasped in his and runs his thumbs along my knuckles.

He looks up and his eyes are grave, though, within them, too, is a deep reluctance for which I cannot account. "Do not think, lady, I know not what you suffer."

"My lord, you need not –"

I halt then and abandon the attempt to interrupt, for I have lost all power of speech and thought. I can do naught but stare. My lord's eyes shimmer with tears.

"Just this morn, I woke to the thought I had heard his voice calling me to start the day."

His face twists with sudden pain and the tears fall and trail upon his cheeks. I can do naught else but fix upon how they catch upon the skin beneath his eyes and capture the light of the fire behind me.

"Even now, though it is had the world been swept clean of sign of him," he says, "when I walk into this hall I hope to trip upon his toys scattered about the hearth or find him searching through my things."

At his words, it is as had a thunderbolt flown from the heavens and lodged itself in my breast. I cannot breathe! I would have recoiled from my lord had he not tightened his grip on my hand. Though he seeks my gaze, a great fear wells inside of me. I struggle to pull away, but he will have none of it until I twist myself violently from his grip. I clap my hand to my bowed face, hiding my eyes from his.

"No," I say, my voice a thin, shaking thing.

"And, lady," he says as he leans close, his voice faltering and thickening until I can bare make out his words, "I cannot bear to think upon what you endured, watching my son fail, and wondering should we have –"

"_No! No! No!_"I shout. It is as had my heart burst and floods my veins with its poison, pressing me to my feet and setting a fire to my voice. _"_How dare you! _ Where wert thou?_" I pound my breast and shriek in a voice I do not recognize as my own. "He was my son! My son!"

"Lady!" My lord rises from his chair.

"Do not touch me!" I flail at his hands as they grasp for me. For the first in all our years together, I want him gone!

"_The son of Men,' thou named him?"_ I cry and knock his hand from me._ "Thinkest thou he would redeem thee thy neglect of thy people? The heir of kings, thy father named thee? Thou hast made us thy pawns to serve thy pretensions! Thou couldst be the son of Elendil himself and still thou art naught but a baseborn son of a cur. Thou hast squandered any rights to his name." _

With that, my lord grapples with me and we fall heavily to his chair, scraping its feet against the stone and knocking o'er the bench and its contents in a great clatter of noise.

"No!" I shout and twist and yank at his hold upon my wrist. I am as a wild thing when the door to a cage first trammels it in. My hand flies free of his grasp. I rear back.

"_Go to thy driftless ranging and leave us be!"_

His head strikes the back of his chair with a sharp crack at the force of the slap.

I hear not my lord's cry ere he smothers it against my hair. For, despite my flailing and screaming down curses upon him, he has ahold of me again and seeks to draw me to his lap with a will that has mastered stronger men than I. His arms are as iron. He has wrapped them about me and grips me to him. His breast heaves beneath mine where he pleads with me for mercy in words I cannot seem to understand.

And then it is as had I choked on my own bitterness and lost all strength and sense. My throat burns for the raw and wild keening sounds I make. My hand is trapped beneath his arm and so I press my face to his breast to hide from my lord's gaze, so great is the feeling that comes upon me.

"_What have I done?_" I choke, spluttering. _"What have I done? Oh, ai! I was his mother and he was naught but a little boy." _

I know not what my lord says, but his voice echoes in the bones and sinew of the breast that presses and heaves against me. His hand comes to grab upon my hair, and he clasps my head to him and rocks. There, upon my lord's chair afore his hearth, we cling to the other and weep. I am not gentle in my grief, for atimes the pain surges through me in a great flood and I scream and beat weakly upon his breast and tear at his clothes as should I wish to rip them asunder. Nor is my lord gentle in the giving of comfort, but grips me as were he afraid he, too, might drown beneath its weight crashing upon him.

It is some time ere a stillness settles upon the hall. But when the quiet comes, my lord loosens his hold upon me. We sit in his great chair and listen to the creaking of its wood as we attempt to breathe. My brow rests against my lord's cheek. I cannot see his face. Nor do I wish to. His hand clutches upon my arm and I know not would he bring comfort to me or to himself with the touch, for he breathes unsteadily and the skin of his cheek where I rest my head is yet wet with his tears.

"Will you not go to Rivendell, lady?" he asks after some time.

Oh, _ai!_ We return to this.

"I do not wish it, my lord. How can I?"

His hand comes up to tighten in my hair and he presses the sharp point his cheek to my brow. His voice is thick and muffled by his lips against my skin. _"I beseech thee, lady, please."_

I can think of but one reason to go and many to stay. And though I must speak through the threat of more tears I must ask it. For I am done with waiting for the axe to fall upon my neck. _"And had thy daughter died today?"_

"_Still I would beg thee go," _he insists. He releases my hair to take my hand firmly in his and refuses to allow me to look at aught else other than his eyes where they are rimmed in red and swollen.

"Lady, this I vow, _I shall ever have need of thee_, no matter the chances of the world. Indeed our children are precious to me and indeed had I hoped to fill this house with as many as you would bear of me. But you are the Lady of the Dúnedain. _Thou art the mother of my children, the woman in my bed, the councilor at my table, and the lady of my House!_ That is fixed and unchanging even should you ne'er bear me another. I would yet cling to the hope one day we shall rid ourselves of the shadow of our Enemy. Should we win free of it, _still I would need thee,_ for you have tasted much of its bitterness and I would have you partake, too, of the joys of this world. Should we fail and the shadow of our Enemy fall upon all the free peoples of this Middle Earth, _still I would need thee_, for greatly shall I require your aid 'til the very last._"_

At this, a huff of air escapes me. "For you have no other -"

"I would choose no other!"

We fall silent at this. I cannot speak, so torn between relief and pain am I. My lord draws his thumb along the long bones of my hand and across my knuckles as he studies them.

"_And yet, not even in this, will I force thee,"_ he says and shakes his head. "The choice is now put to you. It is you who must say whether you will go or stay._"_

"You ask much of your people, my lord."

"I know it." His voice echoes dully, so little hope there is to warm it. "_I forgive thee thy fears and the hand thou raised against me. Thou said naught my own thoughts have not whispered to me_. _Thou placed thy trust in me -_"

At this, he halts, his voice faltering, and can say no more for a little. His hand grips mine the tighter until he is ready to speak again.

"And yet," he says, sniffing wetly and clearing his throat, "you and I must go on. We come nigh the bitter end, lady. Either we risk all now, or more loss awaits us."

I shift upon his lap ere I speak. "I know you ask no more than what should be, my lord. But it was you who set us, your Dúnedain of the North, upon this path, and it is we who suffer for it."

In a voice thickened by my tears, I say, "And you will not be here to help us bear it."

To this he says naught, but draws my hand swiftly to his lips, where I cannot tell should he wish to press kisses to it or use my flesh to stifle what noise he would make.

"Lady," he says low when he has released my hand, "you and I have labored long to build what shelter we can for our people. There is little left to do but trust what hope we have in it. I do not require it of you, to stay and endure what is to come with our folk in my place. I do not require your suffering as payment to lessen the weight of your regrets.

At this, I cannot remain silent, but choke and press my fingers to my lips.

"_Ai, híril nín!_" he cries and skims tender fingers upon my cheek and wipes at tears that have lingered there with his thumb. "I wish you would not torment yourself. I have read the accounting of your days and spoken much to my kinsman. I have no footing to place blame. 'Twas of my own doing, this rift between the Dúnedain and the House of the Lord of Imladris. It was on me to repair it, and I delayed too long and left it for you.

"Neither of us would look back upon the path that led us here and make the same choices again had we known what would come of it, but we cannot see all that comes upon the road ahead. I cannot say I would have chosen somewhat else in your place when in the midst of the press of all that must be addressed. Had I knowledge of how impossible the task had become I had set for you, I would have returned the sooner and we could have chosen together. But, alas! Not until I came west did I hear rumor of it, and then could do naught but press on with all speed. I knew not what to hope for. True, grief awaited me, but I would not sacrifice the joy of finding you still here and of meeting my daughter. 

"One day we will come to it, you and I and our daughter, and we must decide whose hands shall wield the power and authority of our House upon my death. Aye, I may be the last of the line of Isildur. I have reconciled myself to this. But I refuse to relinquish hope, nor the obligations placed upon my House. I cannot abandon my daughter to those who are strangers to Men. One day, much will depend upon her. We will have much to do to repair the trust of our folk, and the men of the Dúnedain must accept her as one of their own. Though she may not live among them for some time, still she must know them. Who else would I send to prepare her for this but her mother."

He then sighs when I do not speak, nor move. He takes up curls that were pulled from the loose twists in my hair, combing through their snarls and smoothing strands of them about his fingers as would he heal these, too, were he able. In the silence of my thoughts, I can do naught but feel crushed between the burn of pain where I am pressed to him and the tenderness of his fingers upon me.

"Whatever your decision," he says, "my heart tells me we have little time afore us. I know not when you and I might next be at rest together or shall this e'er be our last. I have spent long months visiting degradation on a creature twisted by the arts of our Enemy. I weary, lady, of the cruelty of the world and my place in it. And I deem you much the same. An you cannot abide my touch in our bed –"

"Nay, 'tis not that, my lord," I say, quick to interrupt him, but he shakes his head.

"Do not deny it, lady. I had given no thought to offer you amends. You would be within your rights to thrust me from your bed until I had satisfied your need for them. You put your trust in me, and you, and our children, have suffered for it, no matter what justification I might offer for my neglect. I will not ask it of you.

"But, could you not," and here he falters again, and, sighing, speaks with less certainty. "Could we not spend a little of our time, here, in quiet at our hearth? I would watch you at your books, or your spindle or loom once more. I care not. Let the morrow come when it comes." He lets loose a short, bitter laugh. "For surely, such have been the days of late and the burden of the task ahead, I would gladly submit to whatever price you would claim for even the smallest comfort my wife would have in her heart to give her husband."

'Tis only now I can look full upon him. I find he is much as he was when first we met, grim of face and drained of all joy. Beneath, should one know where to look for it, where he would hide it and yet take up the burdens set for him, is the fear and grief that pierces his heart. They were there when first he bound his hand to mine, though I had not known how to look for them then.

I find, as then, I cannot bear it.

And so, I lay my hand upon his jaw and hold him still so I may surge forward and capture his lips in mine. At this, he draws in a quick breath, but then his hands clasp me to him. For long moments we stay thus, as the sighing of the wind in the thatch above our heads and the hiss of sap and snap of the fire fades to naught and all I know are my lord's hands clutching upon me, his lips full and warm beneath mine, and the low sounds arising from deep in his throat at the sweetness of our kisses.

When at last we part, my lord bows his head to rest upon my brow. "This I will do for you, lady," he says. "Should you go with your daughter, I will go with you. I will go to Rivendell."

~oOo~


	58. Chapter 57

~ Chapter 57 ~

"_At the end of June I was in the Shire, but a cloud of anxiety was on my mind, and I rode to the southern borders of the little land; for I had a foreboding of some danger, still hidden from me but drawing near. There messages reached me telling me of war and defeat in Gondor, and when I heard of the Black Shadow a chill smote my heart. But I found nothing save a few fugitives from the South; yet it seemed to me that on them sat a fear of which they would not speak."_

FOTR: The Council of Elrond

~oOo~

_~ TA 3018 2nd day of Nárië: There is naught I can find in the Angle's charter that prevents whoever occupies the seat of the House from assuming that of the Head of the Council, should it be the hallmoot's will. The charter states only that both seats cannot be held at the once._

~oOo~

I left my lord in the solar, there naked amidst the clothes and bedding we had thrown aside.

There my lord pulled the curtains about us to shut out the world beyond our bed. In that small, quiet place, he submitted to my kisses, laying lax beside me. There, with his eyes fastened upon me, as, should he close them, he might forget where he was in the dark, he allowed me to lay blessings upon him of hands that caressed and the press of the weight of warm skin.

There I asked what he wish touched and I relearned the tickle of hair covering his breast, thighs, and belly. I asked where he wished my lips and I relearned the taste of salt o'er the taut sinews of his neck. I asked how I might give him pleasure, and 'twas then, at last, his eyes closed, and I relearned the sweet sounds of his moaning.

'Tis then my lord's eyes fly open. He takes in a deep breath ere he presses me to my back. At first, he rests his brow upon my shoulder, still and tautly strung above me. With his hands spread upon shoulder and hip, he holds me in place as might I yet still disappear from beneath him. I am unsure where his thoughts tend but they are not of pleasure found in our bed, for he grips me nigh to the point of giving pain.

"My lord." I speak soft but my voice sounds overloud in this small space.

His limbs jerk and his eyes flash upon me. Keen and bright they stab at me.

For lack of aught else I can think to do, I have lifted my hand to his face. "_Hîr nín_," I say and find the skin warm and damp with the heating of his blood beneath the tips of my fingers. There I draw them down his brow and cheek. Releasing me from his grip, his face softens and he closes his eyes to turn his cheek to my hand.

"What would you have of me, lady," he whispers.

"I would have you kiss me, my lord," I say, and he does.

'Tis then with slow, deliberate care, his lips travel from shoulder, to breast, to belly. He then takes my legs in his hands and encourages me to move up the bed and make room so he might settle between them.

_Ai! _The lord of the Dúnedain's dark head between my thighs is a greatly stirring thing that e'er has sparked heat at the mere thought of it. Bright pleasure sparks at the sight of his eyes glittering beneath fallen lids glancing upon my face from where he is bent o'er me. And so I gather his hair upon his neck so I may watch as he closes his eyes and takes tongue and lips to first my belly and thighs. _Ai! _So sweet his lips as the ripest of plums.

"Aye," say I about the moan caught in my throat, "_hír nín_," and my lord hums in response, his movements slow as were he nigh to drowsing.

I would laugh for the joy of it, were I not pulled deep in the tide of his attention. Aye, now I know him better, I know my lord a man slow to bed a woman for which he has no great feeling. But once he would take that woman to his bed, her pleasure of him pours fire into his belly. Should I pour such words to his ear it is sure to set him groaning and clutching me to him the tighter.

Oh, have I missed this so, the giving and taking of pleasure with my husband. So long had I grieved its loss. Nay! I shall not think on it. For here we lie. Here there is naught of pain and fear, but the slow reawakening of warmth at his touch.

Aye, soon enough I think I shall beg him to lay his body upon mine so I might watch as he slowly submits to his body's urgency. I wish to see each swiftly drawn breath and each restless shift of limb that hunts down that elusive spark rising just out of reach.

Ah, but we have time. No need to rush to it. For my lord's breathing slows and his shoulders gentle with my whispered praise for his attentiveness. I think it not long and I shall lose all force of thought and words to encourage it and he shall need take a stronger grip upon me for my inability to keep myself still.

Aye, had I the choice, I would stay here and forego all else. No more the relentless accounting of grain and beasts. No more the weary wondering who shall rise up against the House and should I have the will to prevent it. No more the sharp pangs of guilt at my daughter's crying. Oh, _ai_, how Elenir's cries had pierced through breast and bone! Even now can I hear the echo of laughter and smell the stench of foul smoke. _Ai! _The scream that throttled within my throat as it were a great hand gripped there. Had we been but a moment longer upon the pasture –

"Nienelen!"

Dimly, the slats of wood that are the bed's canopy swim into view ere their lines sharpen afore my open eyes. A hand has grasped mine and shaken it. 'Tis only then I look down to find my lord has raised his head and speaks urgently to me. It is not the first he has spoken, for his calling to me echoes in my ears. I know not whether I had made a noise or had turned still and cold beneath his touch and so had alarmed him.

"Oh! My lord!" I exclaim. _Ai!_ The look of sorrow and shame upon his face!

"Hush, _híril nín,_" he says low, for, indeed, hot tears come upon me asudden. He shakes his head, his face grave.

"We need not stop, my lord." I struggle to rise against the weight of bound arm and my lord's body upon me. "There is much else we could still do I have longed for and would give you pleasure."

But he is already arisen and grasps me about my waist and hip so he may gentle me down the bed.

"Nay, lady."

Once I am again stretched upon the bed, he wraps my leg about him so he might curl between my thighs and make my belly his pillow. There he clutches my ribs between his hands and his shoulders pin my hips. Heart-worn is his silence and he lies heavy upon me.

"Long did my desire for this sustain me, lady, but I am weary, and fear my thoughts are in a similar state and as difficult to tame," he says, his voice low against my skin.

His thumbs still in their play against my ribs. "_I heard first the howling and laughter, and then saw thee running_ _and knew what pursued thee._"

It is not until I rest my hand upon his head, he releases a long breath and the line of his shoulders and back softens.

I cannot speak of my gratitude for my lord's watchfulness and the strength of his arm. It seems unfit for words and unworthy of what it costs him. And so, in their place, I run my fingers through his hair and scratch at his scalp for the comfort it gives him. His eyes drift shut. It is some time ere he speaks again.

"She has my mother's eyes, I think," he muses softly.

"Indeed?"

"Even had Mithrandir given me no news of her birth, still I would have known her mine at a glance. I wonder should she keep her look about her eyes as she grows."

"She is sure to have your mother's height." The wry tone of my voice must give me away, for it brings a smile to my lord's face, his beard scratching against my skin as his cheek moves.

"_My little wren_," he says ere he yawns broadly.

Aye, well, I have long become accustomed to my lord and his kin towering o'er me. Would not be much of a change.

I thread my fingers into the hair at the nape of my lord's neck, pulling them through to their ends and there run them along my thumb. Ah, his hair is longer than I had seen, and the ends ragged and greatly in need of trimming. It looks much as had he taken a knife to it at some point in his travels. So much does he take comfort in the running of my fingers upon his head, mayhap I shall yet convince him to allow me to see to it.

"Do you regret it, atimes, not choosing to travel to your mother's kin in the Blue Mountains?"

Startled, at the first I can think naught of what he might mean. I had thought him asleep. But then the words set my heart to aching and I know them for what they are. I am slow to speak, for should I give it voice, I am sure to go aweeping again, and I have had my fill of tears. For only the once has he ever spoken of my kin, whether those fled to the Blue Mountains or of his time among the folk of Umbar or Harad, and never since.

"Atimes," I manage.

"Then I will take you there to find them."

At this, I must stare at his dark hair as it glides o'er my knuckles and listen close to my lord's breathing. For I must breathe deep to still my grimace of pain and blink to rid myself of tears. I dare do little else or risk being swept beneath a sudden flood of longing.

"And when the Shadow is banished, we shall have peace," he goes on, his thumb playing upon my side. "You and I shall take up the seat upon the southern shores of Lake Evendim. There we shall call in attendance the Council of the Clans and refill Annúminas with light, and folk, and trade from all four corners of the Northlands. What say you, _híril nín?_"

I choke upon a laugh, caught by surprise at his thoughts. 'Tis a lovely dream and sure to have kept him warmed when the nights grew long and lonely. "Shall there be dancing, my lord?"

"Aye," he says. "As much as you might wish. You shall have your fill of it."

Aye, should there be any who could heal such wounds as his folk bear and bring such a dream to life, it would be him, this man who shall soon take to snoring into my belly; my lord of broken things.

"You had your choice of other women, my lord. Was it for this?" I ask and he tips his head back to look upon my face.

He considers me a moment ere he speaks. "'Twas one of the reasons," he admits. "I would make the folk of the Dúnedain of the North whole again; those of the Angle, of the homesteads to our south, and the wandering clans of the Gornwaith in the hills. And with you, and our daughter, I think we would have a chance at it."

"Is that so bad?" he asks, when I say naught in reply.

I shake my head and smooth the hair back from his temple with my thumb.

_Ai! _Should only the peace he would win last beyond the sweep of his years and the Dúnedain of Arnor not fall again to wrangling o'er hilltops and fiefdoms, leaving the gleanings of a grim harvest for the men of the hills of Angmar and Dunland to pick over at their leisure, then my daughter and her children might know somewhat of peace as well.

Nay, 'tis lovely, the idea of it, but 'tis naught but a dream. Even should the Nameless One and his lieutenants be vanquished, we are a people scattered across broad swathes of land. Our forefathers paid heavily for their freedom again and again, and the price we shall owe in these next years shall cost us dearly yet once more. It shall be all we can do to hold what last few crumbs of it we can claim ere we are lost to half-recalled tales and snatches of songs.

"I had thought it was Halbarad's tale of the roast hen with onions and plums," I say, and, at this, he laughs full out ere he recalls himself and quiets.

Elenir stirs upon her mattress in the trundle bed beyond the curtains about us. "_Mamil?_" she calls, the word all but unrecognizable for her whimpering.

He falls silent for a little, but has not yet taken to drowsing for the play of his thumb against the line of my ribs. His daughter takes some time to settle, but then slowly comes her light breathing.

"Mayhap it was, after all," he says. "Or the sausage-stuffed pastries you first served ere I was fully returned to my strength."

"Nay, my lord," I say and poke at his shoulder. "Do not lie to me. 'Twas the smoked fish and goat cheese."

"Oh," he groans. He presses his nose and cheek to me and swallows, clutching me to him. "One day you shall cook for me again, and we shall feast and stuff our bellies full until your buttocks are soft and plump and your thighs so round for it they shall shiver and quake when I take my tongue to your cunny, but, until then, _speakest no more of it, I beg thee!_"

At that, I laugh and desist from torturing both he and I with tales of food we have no hope of tasting for many months.

"_Her hair was bound in silken folds_," I begin, his own hair warm between my fingers.

"You have a good memory, lady," he says, smiling with me. "I think I recited that one for you just the once."

"'Twas hard to forget, my lord," I say, whereupon, his voice soft and slow as his fingers slip from side to hip, he takes up the refrain.

_Her hair was bound in silken folds.  
Her round limbs uncovered lay,  
Lit warm by fire in reds and golds__  
__Amidst white linens shimmering.__  
__Sweet her skin between my lips,__  
__More sweeter still her sighs.__  
__But naught compares to the warmth__  
__Of mine ears clasped by her thighs._

Oh, _ai!_ I would laugh aloud should it not wake our daughter, and indeed my lord grins broadly where he lays upon me.

"You promised me more verses of the same, my lord," I say and his hand stills upon me. "Do you not recall it?"

"Ah! I do, lady, but you must permit me more time. I am afraid, though the nights were long, I confess I had no heart for it while away."

"No matter." I run my hand o'er his head. "We are sure to have time," I say, but get no response. I know not why, but it sets my heart to aching in the silence.

"You said you had another reason to choose me as your wife. What was it?" I ask.

I can feel the rush of his breath as the smile falls from his face. So sudden is the change, my heart stills. I wonder should I have asked another question, had I so yearned for his voice. I know should he be considering his words or searching his memories for somewhat which might not offend his wife. I cannot see his face and know not what has occurred to him.

"Tell me true, lady," my lord commands softly. "Did you in truth stand afore the hallmoot and challenge our folk to slay you in front of my kin and overthrow the House?"

Ah! So much had I despaired of my lord's return, I had given no thought to him learning of it, and now know not what to say. I cannot think what he would make of it.

His shoulders stiffen and his hands still upon me when I do not reply. He has pressed his face to me and I cannot tell what plays upon it.

"_Art thou angered?_" I ask.

He shakes his head, but still does not speak. After some time, he sniffs and presses a kiss to my skin.

"I know not what I feel," he says. "Nay, I could not have stood by and watched you at it, but, in truth, I am greatly torn. What manner of man would put his wife is such a position as she felt the need to do such a thing? And yet, 'twas a bold move, lady!"

"Should your luck hold, my lord," I say, "you may yet have the chance of seeing somewhat like from me for yourself one day."

He huffs against me, and I am unsure whether he does so in disbelief I treat it so lightly or in good humor.

"I must be careful to keep my sword at hand at all times for your defense, then."

"You should only hope I do not turn my efforts against you."

This, then, does make him smile, for so I hear it in his voice. "Indeed! Mayhap I should grow more cautious in my attempts to vex you."

"That would hardly be like you."

This sets him to chuckling softly across my skin and his body to lying more easily upon me, and I cannot forbear from smiling. I return to carding his hair with the tips of my fingers.

"And you, lady," he says low. "Now you have had a taste of it in its fullness, have you aught to say of your reasons for accepting my offer of marriage? Were your thoughts filled with naught but duty?"

_Ai! _I am unsure how to answer, for there are reasons I had known when I had given my answer, and then there are those I have come to understand only later.

"I think," I say, "my duty to you and the Dúnedain was all I knew of you, then."

He makes a small, thoughtful noise, neither in agreement nor dissent. "And after?"

I take my time with my answer, for there is much pleasing in my view of my lord's dark head, his broad shoulders, and the long line of his back and legs lying where I can look upon them.

So long am I in my contemplation, my lord lifts his head to glance upon me, only to let loose a huff of breath and lay his head back down.

"So 'twas the pleasures of the flesh, then," he says, and I can feel his cheek shift against my belly with his slowly growing smile.

Mayhap I could agree with him and we could continue our teasing and the mending of our hearts. Indeed, his smug manner clearly invites me to taunt him for it. And, mayhap, with it, I could gentle him into attempting our love-making again, heating his blood with remembrances of times past when I had set him to cursing in a rolling tongue I knew not. But, though there is some truth to what he says, I find I cannot.

"_My lord, I am acquainted with few people who, once they come to know thee, have not come to admire and love thee. Even those who speak against thee are drawn to thee, though they may not wish it._"

I think this takes him by surprise, for he has no easy answer for me, but remains silent for a long moment ere he presses his lips gently to my belly.

And so, I do naught but run the tips of my fingers in circles down the back of my lord's neck, and though he gives voice, he does not take to speaking again. He groans atimes when I scratch my fingers upon the scalp at the back of his head ere, then, he takes in a long breath and, limb by limb, breast, and head, settles more heavily upon me. For long moments we are thus. I know no more of my lord's thoughts, for he breathes deeply and his hands lie lax against me.

"_A willow switch and a spindle_," comes my lord's voice, muffled and slow, and he huffs a breath against me. I must strain to catch his words.

"What was that, my lord?"

He does not give me answer but lies still upon me. With that, my lord breathes slow and his hands twitch against me as he dreams.

Here, I am warm and my lord's body a pleasant weight sinking me deep to the mattress. Here, I can release my hold upon the cares that are my burden, and, listening to the soft breath of both husband and child, close my eyes and sleep, for a little.

~oOo~

Once it was time and my lord awakened, he then parted the curtain that kept me from his view, and, lying upon our pillows, allowed his look to linger upon me as I poured water to the wide bowl of pottery upon our tall chest and bathed. When done, I was yet loath to leave and let him pull me to perching upon the side of the mattress. There I ran my hand upon my lord's breast and belly and he, his hand brushing gently upon my cheek ere he wrapped it about the back of my head, pulled me down for yet one, and another, and another kiss.

I know not how he bore it, for I am an unlovely sight. I bear red wales upon my face so deep, despite my husband's care, I bear faint scars upon brow and cheek and neck for it e'en now, and my eye so red and swole I can see naught but a slit of the day through it.

When I struggled to pull a clean shift upon my person, only then did my lord rise from his bed and gave me assistance, setting the strips of linen he had wrapped about me to rights and easing my arm through my sleeve. There he pulled laces that tightened my dress about my body, drew my hair into loose braids and knotted it at the nape of my neck as had been my wont when first we were married, and set my arm to the sling and a scarf about my head. He then drew me to sitting upon the edge of our mattress, and there rolled my hose upon my legs, knotting the ties that hold them above my knee and then kneeling afore me to slip shoes upon my feet. All this he did with a surety and skill that spoke of a long attentiveness I had not thought he had given.

"She should be awakened soon," I say, else our daughter would not sleep through the night. So worn had she been, she slept through our return to the solar and even now breathes deeply in her slumbers and seems not eager to rouse.

My lord nods and draws a hand down my free arm. "I will but wait until you have left to avoid giving her distress. Go run your errands and put your affairs in order, lady. I will see to her and the preparations for the morrow."

The time was indeed short, and there was much left undone I must give to other hands.

~oOo~

AN: I wish I could say that I came up with the name for Aragorn as the lord "of broken things," but I did not. I borrowed it from overthinkinglotr on tumblr. She called him the King of Broken Things and I liked it so much I begged permission to use it.


	59. Chapter 58

~ Chapter 58 ~

_The hobbits looked at him, and saw with surprise that his face was drawn as if with pain, and his hands clenched the arms of his chair. The room was very quiet and still, and the light seemed to have grown dim. For a while he sat with unseeing eyes as if walking in distant memory or listening to sounds in the Night far away._

FOTR: Strider

~oOo~

_~ TA 3018 2__nd__ day of Nárië: My tale of the days I must now leave in other hands. To Mistress Pelara and Elesinda I now beg they maintain record of the doings of the Angle and their attempts to provide aid and care to its folk. _

~oOo~

I need not knock to gain entry, having abandoned the formality years ago. So, it is to much surprise I find 'tis not the mistress nor master of the house within.

In the brief moment ere he is aware of the intrusion, he huddles over a bowl of tea. I think he warms himself o'er the smell of rosehips, for he has closed his eyes and breathes deep of the soft mist rising from the bowl.

"Oh!" say I, in place of the greeting call that had formed upon my lips, and he blinks himself alert.

The fine, dark eyes that alight upon me are sunk the more deeply and his coat hangs upon a frame shrunken from its former size. But his eyes are clear and keenly they take me in. For a long moment, we stay thus, I with my journals clutched to my breast, Elesinda wide-eyed and waiting at my back, and he mutely cataloguing each hurt upon me.

"Elder Maurus is within and his daughter gone to Mistress Tanril," Bachor says at last, shifting back in his seat and motioning across the table. "But she left me with the tea, should you wish to join me while you wait."

I think her not gone long, for a thin twist of steam yet rises from pot.

"Elesinda, would you be so good as to find her?" I ask and she nods and turns to retrace our steps.

The journal is heavy and much weighted with our lists and my diary of the days. It draws his eyes when I set it upon the table across from him. Mayhap I brought more than was truly needed, but I would not have the Mistress' efforts go wanting for my lapse.

"So, then, you are leaving us," he says.

I need not speak. The answer is carved upon my face and told in the search for the men who set fire to my lord's hall. I have no wish to see the bitterness that must surely be writ upon his and so do not look upon him, but take to the task of searching the mistress' tall chest.

"And now our lord has returned to the Angle, is his business concluded? Shall he order his Rangers hither or shall they continue to protect the lands about the Shire?"

With a flash of anger, I falter in reaching for a bowl and wonder which Ranger need be urgently referred to Halbarad for rebuke, but then halt in my thoughts. The wine. It must have been the wine used for his cure. Though we decant it ere distributing it among the folk of the Angle, naturally, still would he know it for what it was; traded for at The Prancing Pony in Bree. 'Twas a strong, red wine from the Southfarthing, and I had not thought to hide it.

"Do not think you have me at a disadvantage, Bachor," I say, but his only response is to shrug.

"Do not think me ungenerous, my lady, I come bearing information of my own to offer. The exchange need not be in kind."

I close the door to the chest and level what I hope is a skeptical look upon him for all of the strong beating of my heart.

"It would depend on the quality of your merchandise, _Master Trader_. There is much of rumor that I would not trust in these times."

"Ah, true that is," he says, watching as I return to the table, "but this comes from my source upon whom I have relied heavily and not proven wrong yet."

"Your man from Lindon has returned?"

"Aye, though briefly." He nods. "He brings what goods he could bear with him on his ponies and tales of events to the south ere he proceeds east. He has much to tell, but I thought this you and the rest of the Council would wish to know."

"What did he bring?"

"Salt, winter wheat, and iron ingots."

I make a small noise. I have taken up a small square of cloth poured myself some of the tea and seated myself afore my bowl. I rub fingertips along its rim ere I drink from it and consider the risks. "How much?"

"Enough for a little."

"Then mayhap you should talk, and what I offer in exchange shall be a little," I say and take up my bowl. 'Tis very tart, the rosehips, without honey to sweeten it and I can drink but a little a sip at a time.

Bachor wets and purses his lips ere he speaks, his lips quirking a little ere he stills them. "There is rumor of foul folk far away to the south searching out the land of the Halflings, the Shire. Riders in black, they are, and where e're they go madness follows them. 'Tis said a man cannot look upon them and not fall into dark thoughts. For some reason, my man had cause to think we would wish to know of this and so dared the journey with his escort."

He searches my face, his certainty fraying under my silence. For, my heart sinks and I truly have naught to offer him in exchange that he does not have the wit to discern for himself.

"These riders, he says, peering at me. "Should what they say be true of them, they can be but from one place, can they not?"

I will tell them, but I doubt this will be news to my lord, or his kinsman. No wonder it is then, the Lord of Imladris' sons sought them out with letters from their father. Sure it is my lord must face them. Their arrival was looked for and all his plans ride upon thwarting their goal.

"What these riders seek," Bachor goes on, his face sobering when it seems I cannot deny what he has heard, "it must be of great power, or they would not go to the effort so far from where they have dwelt all this time, aye?"

In all this, I have not spoken, but take in the tart scent of the tea rising in a mist afore me. It seems he has lost all of his former delight in the negotiation of his price, for he has launched himself to his feet. His seat clatters to the floor behind him, unheeded. He rubs mightily at his face as he paces the short distance between table and window. He has grasped upon his hair at the back of his neck, his face a study in apprehension ere he turns to me and speaks.

"Who are they, Nienelen? Do you know?"

I take up a sip of the tea, but the delay does me no good. There is naught to consider. He sacrificed much to put his faith in me, and either I return his trust or I do not.

"They are The Nine," I say.

"The Nine!"

Horror flashes upon his face and twists his features into somewhat harsh and unseemly. It takes little effort to know his thoughts, for it could mean but one thing; the _Butcher of Umbar _has returned to the North yet again.

And then it seems all feeling has drained from him, his shoulders slumping. He rights his seat and falls heavily to it, leaning his elbows upon the table and clasping his face in his hands.

"I had thought it could not be true." His voice rises from behind his hands. "I had but hoped to use this news to press your denials for other answers.

"The land of the Halflings, of all places. I would pity them, should we not also share their fate. _Ai! _ It cannot stay there." At this he laughs behind the cage of his hands. The sound has naught of mirth in it but is heartsick and weary. "Your husband is not to stay, then, is he? Nor his men."

I think he might yet weep, but I hear naught coming from behind his hands. I have little to say to give him comfort. The time for secrecy is o'er. We have made the sacrifice to keep it, and it is done. Yet I cannot bring myself to speak of aught else I know of the matter.

"Nienelen," he says of a sudden, dropping his hands. "Greatly do I rue the words I said to you upon the barrows-"

"Do not speak of it!"

His eyes fly to mine at the force with which I have spoken. But I cannot meet his gaze and hear little but the sudden beat of my heart in my ears.

His hands twitch where they lay upon the table beside his cup, as he were stilling the impulse to reach for my hand and press my fingers in his.

"I will beg Halbarad for a guard for your man for his journey home," I say when I can trust my voice and Bachor shifts a little in his seat, still watching me closely. "He deserves this at the least for his attempt at aid. And we shall not need the House's portioning of the rations," I say, forestalling aught else he might say of my leaving. "What is left of them in the granaries should be spread among the folk of the Angle." I make to rise but his hand darts across the table to grasp mine where it lays upon the table between us. "I have somewhat for you, but I shall leave it with Mistress Pelara and you can ask her for it."

I do not know where I intend to go, mayhap to follow Elesinda and hurry the mistress' return. But Bachor takes in a quick breath. I think, then, he will disregard my wishes and press his regrets upon me, for he looks upon me with somewhat of shame, but he does not. Instead, he shakes his head a little in both apology and reassurance.

"Let us speak of other matters, then, Nienelen," he pleads, his voice low. "I would have a better farewell than this, aye?"

I nod and after a moment he releases my hand.

"Your tea is growing cold." He nods to my bowl when it seems I cannot think of aught to say or elsewhere to look other than his face.

Aye, so it is, and I should not waste it.

"What is it you have for me?" he asks once I have taken a sip. "Will you not give it to me now where we can speak of it?"

In place of an answer, I set my bowl to the table and withdraw the letter I had prepared from beneath the leather flap of the journal.

His brow rises at the thick seal upon it, for, indeed, heavy with the last of our wax, it bears my lord's mark. At first his glance darts to me as he breaks the seal and unfolds it, but once open, he cannot look upon aught else but what is written within.

"You may now send out men to purchase grain from the lands east of us, should you find those who are willing to go," I say. "Though you may wish to wait until the fall harvest. The way should be clear of The Nine by then."

He stares at me, dumfounded, ere he returns to reading the letter as were he drawn there. 'Tis not a lengthy missive, but I doubt not it may take some time to fully understand its contents.

"Tanaes does not look well," I say.

"Nienelen," says he and, pinching it between fingers and thumb, thrusts the letter at me. "What is this?"

"Can you not read it?"

"Oh, aye, our lord's hand is fair enough. What are you playing at?"

"I play at naught."

"You cannot do this!"

"I am not the one doing it," I say.

Despite my protests, mayhap this brings me more pleasure than it should. Indeed, my lord had snorted in wry amusement at my request when I presented it to him, but was willing to leave it to my judgment.

"Do not treat me as a fool!" Bachor exclaims. He shakes the parchment at me ere tossing it to the table between us and stabbing his finger at it. "The Lord Aragorn may have written this, but there is not a single word upon this page that is not of your dictation."

"You are my nearest of kin and so nearest of kin to the House of Isildur in the absence of Ranger Halbarad."

"Have you not wished this?" I go on when he does naught but stare at me, agog. "Did you not plan and maneuver and scheme for this very thing?"

"Aye! No! _Ai! _ I wished to replace the House, not represent it," he cries. "Should I do it well, you can assume the credit of it upon your return, and should I not, I have all the blame!

"This is your revenge upon me, I know it. I knew it was coming," he says, thrusting a finger at me. "I swore I would not underestimate you and, once I had, I knew I would come to rue it. And so I do."

"Bachor-"

"Have I not committed myself wholeheartedly to your aims, subordinated myself to your will, and proven my loyalty? What else would you ask of me?"

"This is what I would ask," I say, pointing to the letter. "'Tis on you now to decide whether you take up the seat for the House as its representative or abandon our folk."

He glares at me o'er the tea.

And indeed he is caught, and in a trap of his own making. Should he take up the offer of the duties of the House of Isildur and its seat upon the Council, it may lessen the shock of our leaving some, my lord and I, for we have set another to see to the Angle's needs, as is proper. But, should he not, so oft was it said the seat was Bachor's by right, he will be hard put to it to convince our folk their abandonment was not partly his fault.

His look turn mutinous and he taps at his bowl of tea with the edge of his thumb.

"A copy has been sent to Elder Tanaes," I say. "He has, no doubt, read it in full by now."

"Nienelen," he exclaims at this, "deeply am I coming to regret not taking up Halbarad's sword of myself."

I cannot help but smile, for all his unhappiness and dread for the fate of the Dúnedain of the North, 'twas the one thing he would never do. I had counted on it then, and still, though he knows I have used it against him, he could not.

"And you will gladly hand it back over when the House returns to the Angle," I say.

His look sour, he straightens in his chair and pats at the pot's handle, testing its heat, ere grasping it. "You think so?"

"Tanaes does not look well," I say again.

"No, he does not." He frowns and looks at me intently, ere pouring himself more of the tea.

"He will not listen to me, to Nesta, or any who care for him."

"He will not listen to me, either," says Bachor and eases back in his chair. He plays with his bowl, tapping at it with fingertips. "Though, he would rather die than have regrets, I think."

"Who do you think wishes to fill the vacancy of Head when he passes?"

He lets loose a short grunt ere raising the bowl to his lips. "You would have been a fool to have missed that," he says, to which I shrug.

"You will be well positioned to advance to his seat, but for one thing."

"Should the House not be here, it cannot weigh in on the matter," he says, his voice growing sharp.

"Verily, but you would not hold the position for long."

He makes a small sound, considering me intently and his hands still on his bowl. "What do you want, Nienelen?

"Many things, but I will settle for three."

"Your terms?"

"Expand the Council's numbers by two," I say. "That should please you."

It does. This is no surprise, for it would give a much greater chance of balancing out the House's greater vote.

He sets down his bowl. "What does it cost me?" he asks with a lift of his chin.

"One to be a member of the wandering clans elected by the pledgeholders."

"That would require increasing the number of pledgeholders with those from among the wanderers, making this the second of your terms."

"Aye, by no less than ten in number."

He stills for a moment and it is as I can see him calculating the increase in the House's vote and weighs it against the balance of men upon the Council. "I accept," he says, "and the third term?

"Mistress Pelara is to be the second member set to the Council by a year hence."

His eyes widen in alarm. "That will be the more difficult to achieve given the barriers," he says, ere he cries out and slaps the table and points at me, "Ah! Clever, Nienelen, but that brings your terms to four."

"No, that does not follow," say I, shaking my head and lifting my bowl. I smile ere I take a sip. "You must revise the charter to allow my second term. It makes no difference that you must also revise the charter to allow women to hold and make oaths for the third."

He looses a rude sound of scorn. "What kind of revisions have you in mind?"

"I leave that to you."

Though he may fight it, a slow smile steals upon his features as he considers the possibilities.

I sigh and set down my bowl ere I had the chance to drink from it. "The House retains all rights of refusal of amendments."

He shrugs, grinning broadly. "Very well." He nods. "I shall put the matter of Mistress Pelara to the Council."

"No," I say, lingering on the word, "you will have it done."

He squints and then points at me. "I will put it to both the pledgeholders and the Council."

"Then you have not a year, but half of one. You will have it done and she will sit upon the Council ere the turn of the year."

"Nienelen," he protests. "I could have her attend in consultation, but not vote –"

"She will be seated upon the Council with full rights and responsibilities ere the turn of the year, else I shall move for your removal from the Council itself immediately upon my return."

"You have no grounds!"

"No?"

Oh, aye, for as much as I have relearned my fondness for him, he has surely done somewhat that would earn him his dismissal from the Council, should he be so lucky at it not cost him his life and the banishment of his kin. I have but to put to the hallmoot the question of how he refilled his oathmen's granaries after Sereg set them ablaze. I have no doubt he had been hoarding supplies and hidden them from our accounting, else he would have accepted aid, no matter the cost.

"Ah," he says, his look grim. "You have been tempting me with sweet berries when you hid the lash behind your back the whole time," he says.

"I would think the berries a pleasanter taste."

He raises his palms. "Mistress Pelara shall be seated on the Council, to be achieved afore the year is done, and when you return you shall review all amendments made to the charter and affirm my seat as Head."

I have little hope of hiding my satisfaction behind my bowl, but I give it an attempt.

"But that threat shall only work the once," he goes on and, to his annoyance, his vexation only serves to fuel my delight.

"Matilde will be much pleased, should she not laugh herself silly at my expense," he says and, sighing, drains the last of the tea from his bowl. "_Very well, I shall be thy tool and see it done, _and in exchange I shall do my utmost to see the House restored to its position when it returns to the Angle.

"Though," he adds wryly, "truly I wish our lord well, it would be easiest to put the blame for your removal at his feet and our efforts will be the easier should it be just you who returns at the first."

I know not what to say to that and so a silence falls upon us in which we do naught but look upon the other.

He has drunk his tea and I mine. Our bowls cool quickly, and we have settled what needs settling. There is naught more we must address, he and I. And yet, though he shifts in his chair and I sit stiffly in mine, I cannot bring myself to rise nor say words I know must be said.

"I hear you are to hold the gathering of clans for the High Days of _Eruhantalë_ after the fall harvest," I say when I can stand the silence between us no longer.

"Aye," he says. "I am afraid they have outgrown Master Orthoron and Mistress Istriel's hall."

He goes on, "Will you have returned by then?"

I shake my head, for I know not when that shall be. After a moment in which I cannot speak for the sudden ache in my throat, he licks at his lip, considering me.

He leans close and speaks low. "Send Elesinda for your daughter when she returns," he urges, his eyes searching mine. "Muindir has remained firm in his offer and his father is of the same mind. I have had all prepared since last we talked of this. We need not wait. You could leave now."

"No," I say, for Halbarad would be upon us within the day, so slow would we travel in comparison to his speed when pressed, and I would lose all chance of flight to the north. "My daughter's father would not send her into danger. I must trust this."

"I am not blind, Nienelen, somewhat has cooled the friendship of the House of Imladris. Your husband will be much away and you have no friends there!"

"No," I say and this time must make my voice firm.

"As you wish." He takes up my hand and presses it. "But I do not like it."

Nor do I, but there is little choice in the matter.

"I," I say and then falter, "I shall greatly miss Mistress Istriel's telling of tales."

I would say that he clutches my hand at this, were he to close his fingers about mine any tighter. He bites at his lip and turns his face away. It is some moments ere he speaks again, blinking and clearing his throat.

"You shall hear them one day, her tales," he says, his voice harsh. He sniffs and clears his throat again, smiling weakly. "She promised to tell of the Elderborn of both Near and Far Harad. It seems there are more Houses of Men that bear elven blood than are spoken of in the north. Should you not be here, I shall make note of them and tell them to you myself."

Then, after a moment in which it seems he considers should he continue or not, he smiles. "Though it seems our forefathers had the good sense to avoid setting them so high as to declare them kings and attempt to build a dynasty upon them."

I snort at this, caught between sudden laughter and tears, and he laughs full out, delighted to have forced it from me.

"_Dost thou swear it, it shall be thee who tells these tales_?" I ask, for, as ever he and my sister had, I doubt not he shall make many such irreverent observations and keep me in merriment at the shock of them. He smiles, and so warm is his look it sets my heart to aching.

"_I do_," he says. "And," he goes on, tapping my hand against the table, "at no cost to you for it."

He grins at my laughter. With a last squeeze, he releases my hand and stands.

"I wish you safe journey, Lady Nienelen."

"_May the Valar watch over thee and the work thou dost here,"_ I say and rise to make my farewell of him.

"Oh, ne'er fear," he says, with an air of weary forbearance. "You need not give me a Ranger's farewell. We will meet again and resume our struggles. I know it. Should it only be so you may heap abuse upon my head for having already set in motions plans to put men of our wandering kin upon the Council ere you asked it of me and given both news and the iron, wheat, and the salt to the Council ere you arrived."

At this I laugh. He is man who knows very little of shame. "I shall look forward to it, Bachor," I say as I follow him to the door. "Until then, _may the Valar keep thee in thy care_"

And with but a pale shade of the flirt I knew when he was a youth, afore Elder Maurus' door he takes the hand I offer.

"_Be well,_" he says, winking up at me from where he bows o'er my hand to press a warm kiss to my knuckles, "Sister."

~oOo~

"What is this?" Pelara cries, her face red with the exertion of the dash to return to her father's house.

Bursting through the door with Elesinda close behind, the mistress stands with her hands dangling at her side, staring at me. Her eyes dart from the linen binding my arm to my breast and swollen eye.

"Elenir was not harmed," I rush to say, but it seems this, at least, is news, for her eyes widen with further alarm.

"Your daughter was with you?"

Her father had already joined me at their table, shuffling in from their private rooms and squinting at me as I poured him some of the tea, cooled though it was. I think him just woken from his sleep, for he was slow to speak and his white hair stood in a cloud about his head. He sighs when Pelara grabs up the leather journal with its pile of parchments and, crossing the room, slams it to the tall chest's board.

"First I am to hear that some hedge-born fool has made the attempt to burn my lady and her infant daughter in their beds." Pelara takes up the poker from where it dangles upon the brazier and pokes at the coals within. "Then there are Weres seen upon our lands for the first in the Valar knows when and, but for the chance our lord has returned from months away doing the Valar knows what, we'd have to bury his lady and yet another of his children?"

I wince and can think of naught to say.

I need not, for Elesinda's face darkens swiftly. "I would have told you naught of this had I thought you would –"

Pelara straightens to thrust the poker at the young woman. "I have heard enough out of you this day, young miss. Best ye be minding what is business of yours and leave me be."

"Your ill temper is not of my making," says Elesinda, advancing on her.

"Quit with your questions about Nesta, then!" cries Pelara. "I've not seen the woman and it is none of your concern should I not wish to see her again!" She gives the coals a vigorous poke, rattling the brazier.

_Ai! _ I should say somewhat, but what?

"Daughter," sighs Elder Maurus. "Could you not settle for a little?"

Elesinda shakes her head. She has taken up the journal from where Pelara had set it and brings it back to the table. There she sets to opening it and sorting through the parchments we had collected and thrust there in no particular order ere we traveled hither.

Had I thought I might miss her ire, I am now disabused of the notion.

"And now you, my lady," she cries, turning to me, "are to leave us and have me take a seat upon the Council all of myself when you have abandoned it?"

"You are not speaking to Nesta?" I ask and the poker clangs against the side of the brazier where Pelara has let it drop on its hook. Of all the things she has protested, it seems this strikes at my heart the most. I had expected the rest.

"My lady, I doubt not she and I the only two women of your acquaintance who would have an interest in such a thing," she says harshly, "but kindly extend me the courtesy of allowing me to make my own choice of lover." She has opened the cupboard and is rummaging within, bowls and cups clanking against the other.

"Pelara," I say, twisting about in my chair so I may look upon her more fully, "'twas not my thought. Truly it seemed you and she a good match for the other and you were happy together."

Pelara slams the chest's door closed without having taken somewhat out. I have not seen her so angry.

"My lady," she shouts. "I would think you did not care overmuch for it when most folks thought you fit for none but another wanderer-born to marry. I would not have forced Ploughman Gworon on you or left you, alone as you were, to the mercies of men who thought you comely enough for their attention but not worthy of making you wife. Kindly do the same for me!"

And then I can hear naught else of what she might say, for the sudden silence rings in my ears and I know naught but the bright heat that floods my face and a blur of light and dark in my eyes.

Pelara presses the back of her hand to her mouth. She stands frozen beside the brazier in the stillness following her outcry. _"Ai!"_ she says, moaning low.

She wipes roughly at her cheeks, stammering, "Forgive me. Let me… I should… I will heat more water for your tea and we can talk of what needs doing ere you go." And with this, she grabs up the pot and disappears into the family's hall, closing the door gently behind her.

"Well, well, well," Maurus says. He grunts and knocks the head of his cane lightly against the table and shakes his head. "She is a puzzle, that she is, my daughter."

"Would she truly not be happier with Nesta?" whispers Elesinda. She has long since given up on her work and rests her arms upon the open pages, considering us.

"Oh, aye, she would, could she get over her terror of losing Nesta as she lost the father of her children," he says low. "But, we shall see. Her children have been made most unhappy by these developments and are very used to her sharp tongue."

I stare at him, only now aware the old man has not raised his voice above a whisper and neither has Elesinda. His eyes sharpen on me with somewhat of amusement.

"Lothel! Lothel!" he shouts, startling me. We hear the scrambling of soft feet ere the lass' dark head appears around the doorway to the family's toft.

"Aye, grandsire?"

"Come, my pet, go fetch my cap, an it please you." He motions stiffly to the tall chest.

She is across the room and back in a trice, and the old man takes up his walking stick from where it leans upon the table.

"Aye, there now, give me your shoulder, that's a lass," he says as he leans upon both girl and table to rise. He shuffles to get his feet under him and takes up his cap.

"Well, my pet, our lady and her kin have given us a great deal of work to do today. I suppose we should be about it, eh?"

"My lady," he says, bringing his knuckles to his brow briefly ere settling the cap to his head. He pats his fingers briefly upon mine as he passes. And with that, he makes his way to the door.

"Where shall we go first, do you think?" he asks and Lothel turns her face up to her grandsire.

"We could go to Ada and ask what he has heard," she says. "'Tis the market upon the morrow."

"Aye, a good plan, pet," he says from beyond the door. "Lead the way then!"

~oOo~

When I open the door to their private rooms, it is to find the mistress sitting upon her bench afore her hearth. She has not drawn water. I know not where she has set down the pot. Naught simmers in the iron pot swung over its ashes and the hearth itself looks to be cold.

She does not look up, and indeed seems to have expected my presence. Instead, she rubs at the skirts covering her knees and rocks a little where she sits. Her face is painful to look upon and she wipes at her cheeks with her palms.

"_I must beg thy pardon_, my lady," says she, scrubbing her hands upon her apron. "'Twas an ugly thing I said to you and I am the lesser for it." She refuses to look at me when I come to sit by her side, but stares at her empty hearth. "We traded insults when first we started this. You forgave me them then. I had hoped to never need your forgiveness again, but it seems I must beg it."

I nod and she blows out an unsteady breath.

"You said, then, too," she goes on, "that you came to elevate my efforts, though I thought it naught more than your attempt to soothe my temper."

"Surely it comes as no surprise," I say. "I have spoken of it oft enough."

"Aye, when I needed a good knock back to my place," she cries, loosing a short, wry laugh. "I thought it was your way to jest to soften the blow. I did not think it would come to this."

I do not deny it. Mayhap I had, but it did not follow that I thought less of her skills nor would I not wish her the chance to use them.

"Aye, well," I say. "Should you not wish it, then, mayhap you would be willing to aid your father in naming some old man of his acquaintance who would take your place when it is time."

"Och no, my lady!" she cries, her back jerking straight and turning to me. "Nay, there will be none of that. You promised me a place on the Council, there will be no taking that back, now."

That sets me to laughing, no matter the indignant look upon her face.

"Ah!" she exclaims, flapping at my leg. "Stop it now! Enough with your teasing, my lady."

And yet I cannot stop with my merriment, but, easing closer, link my arm in hers and lay my cheek upon her shoulder. She does not forbid it, and indeed, her face twisting of a sudden with tears, pats on my arm and takes the weight of my head.

"Threaten me with one of my father's old fools—. I suppose I am that easy to play," she says and sniffs, rubbing my arm. "Aye, I will do it." She sighs and sinks a little closer. "As you knew I would should you ask it of me."

We then fall silent and I wonder how much longer I can stay. I think the mistress as reluctant as I to speak, for aught we might say would bring us the sooner to parting. So, it is some time ere she speaks again, and in it, though the silence is fond, it is more somber than afore. For, when I go, I know not what I shall find should I return. 'Tis not until I sigh and would lift my head she speaks.

"My lady," she says ere clearing her throat. "I have somewhat I should have told you long ago."

I cannot think what it could be, but in what I can see of her, Pelara has sobered, though her hand has come again upon my arm and she grips it warmly.

"I always meant to," she goes on, smoothing the cloth of my sleeve. "You would come, and I would think, 'Aye, today, you great coward, today you should tell her,' but then we would get to our work. And I could think of naught but your face when we buried your father and how changed you were after your sister's death, and the words wouldn't come."

I can think of naught to say that might give comfort but take her hand from where it restlessly plucks upon my sleeve. This does naught but make more tears prick at her eyes, it seems. But, still, she looses a sharp breath and looks to the rafters of her hall ere she turns so she can see me more closely.

"I knew your mother," she says, and so unexpected are the words she says, I am struck dumb and have sat up straight and released her hand. How had I not known this?

"Now, my lady, just a little, and not enough to call her friend, but she was a Ranger's wife after all," she says. "She was a quiet person, and not given to revealing much was on her mind. We had so little time with her, but, she was a beauty, and sharp as a whip and generous with aught she had. And I'd seen what it cost my dear Lady Gilraen. She did her best, but toward the end there, we could do naught to get her to rise from her bed. Broke my heart, it did, seeing her like that.

"And so," she says and pats at my arm with her free hand as were I her child and then grips it fast as I stare at her, "when our lord chose you, I thought 'Aye, well, should she be much like her mother, then mayhap it will not go so ill.

"And I'll be damned to wandering the wastes of this world should I let the House grind you to dust beneath its weight like it did his mother and do naught to prevent it," she says, her voice growing indignant. "Had a thing or two to tell your husband I did, in those first days. 'Twas on me to do it, after all, you being a daughter of my father's oathman.

"Och, my lady, the look upon our lord's face!" She shakes her head at the mystery of the ignorance of men. "As were he thought the fire burns hot and the beans and greens plunge to the pots by themselves to fix his meals and the linens on his bed came clean with but a thought, and you out there in the cold cleaning out the chicken coop while he sat at his table with his kin."

Well I recall that day, for the mistress had arrived with my father's hens from where they had been tending them with their own. Red-faced and huffing she had stormed from the buttery door and all but commanded I stop with my scrubbing so she could set some lad of her acquaintance to the task in my stead. Had not been long after my lord had offered the services of both reeve and maid to his beleaguered lady.

But then, Pelara falters. She cannot she cannot look upon me and her grip upon me tightens.

"I'm frightened, my lady," she says and takes a trembling breath. "Terrified, more like," she says, her voice wet and shaking, "should you want the truth of it."

Oh,_ ai!_ No! I cannot. How is it I can I leave?

But it seems she has more to say, for when I draw breath to speak, she goes on, though her voice wavers.

"But I'd look at you, dear lady, and see you get up every morn, with your lord or without, and I'd think, 'Aye, well, then, should the Lady be able, then mayhap I can do this for one more day, and one more day, and then the next.'

"And I think, mayhap, it would have broke your mother's heart to see the troubles you've had to bear," she says. "But, I think, too, she would have been very proud to call you her daughter."

At this, I can take no more and, pulling my arm sharply from her grip, I nigh throw myself into her embrace. Strong her arms wrap about me and pull my head to press hard to her cheek.

"Oh, Pelara," I say and struggle to do more than shed tears upon her neck.

"Nay, don't you 'Oh Pelara' me, my lady," she says, laughing a little and sniffing. "There now, I've finally said my piece."

She pats at my head ere she puts me from her. Her hand comes up to press against my cheek and is as swiftly gone. "That's my gift to you to set you on your road. I knew it would end in tears, but now we've had our cry."

I can do naught but laugh with her, though she is naught but a blur for the tears I have yet to find the strength to still.

"Now then," she says. "Let us have our farewell, eh?"

"Aye," I say, nodding.

I wish I could stop my weeping and speak of my own gratitude for all the mistress has done for me. Indeed, I should speak. I should thank her. I cannot. But Pelara seems not to mind, for, being careful to not press her palms upon my hurts, she pulls my head to her so she might kiss my brow.

"_May the Valar watch over thee and guide thy steps. Mayest thou find comfort in the simplest of pleasures and purpose to thy efforts. And no matter how far thou wanders from those that love thee, may the Valar see thee safe and bring thee home._"

~oOo~

AN: Oof, the words came easily, but that was emotionally difficult chapter to write. And that's it for any chapters that will need a first draft. Everything else is written. I'm going to need to beg your forgiveness for any SPAG, or awkward and over-used phrasing in this chapter, dear readers. I don't think I'm going to be able to return to it for a while.


	60. Chapter 59

~ Chapter 59 ~

_And on the evening of Midsummer Aragorn Arathorn's son, and Arwen daughter of Elrond went to the fair hill, Cerin Amroth, in the midst of the land, and they walked unshod on the undying grass with Elanor and niphredil about their feet. And there upon the hill they looked east to the Shadow and west to the Twilight, and they plighted their troth and were glad._

LOTR: Appendix A: Here Follows a Part of the Tale of Aragorn and Arwen

~oOo~

The journey to the hidden vale of the Elves is not long, should it be counted in days, but, to me, it seems I have traveled an Age of the World.

Our small company of Rangers and my lord's family made fair time in their travels, they tell me. We went horseback and by road, but I am no great rider and by the end of the first week was sore and weary.

My daughter, on the other hand, seemed to take to the journey as were each day a grand adventure. And I doubt not she found it so. For she had her mother always within call and she sat afore her father on his grey-coated steed and took in the trail. My lord borrowed his wife's nursing shawl and secured his daughter to him and, upon her insistence, pressed her cloth poppet against her with one hand while he held the reins with the other. At first, she clutched at him, wrapping her fingers about one of his. But soon she grew easy with the sway of the horse's gait and leaned forward as far as the cloth would allow, babbling, laughing, and kicking her feet, or leaning back against her father's belly and drinking in the world with her wide eyes as she idly pulled at her poppet's hair and listened to the soft sounds of her father singing to her.

Ever and anon she brightened and pointed out somewhat that caught her eye, be it the bright flash of a bird across our path, the nodding of boughs heavy with blossoms, or the hawk that circled overhead. Then she cried out to her father, and he dipped his head to see where she pointed and share a word. The smile that shone down on her was a thing of quiet wonder and she returned it brightly. Atimes we halted briefly for my lord to fulfill his daughter's whims, from gathering the flowers she desired or stilling her tears upon the discovery she had dropped her favored toy some ways back. We pressed on, but Elenir was eager to learn of her father and his world, and he was as willing to teach it.

But when the sun set, and we stopped and huddled about our small fire, it was her mother she sought. Then, she wished only to curl upon my lap while we ate. There, once he saw me struggling to manage it, her father broke off and handed me small pieces of flat crackers, dried mushrooms, and dried meats so that I might place them in our daughter's fingers and eat of them myself. There, with my free arm about her and my head inclined to hers, I chanted soft songs our foremothers wove of the air above our cradles and she hugged her poppet close to her breast, fighting the heaviness of her eyes as she nursed. At these times there was naught to hear above our voices but the hiss and pop of the fire. The men who guarded us in our journey were silent as they sat about us, the flames bringing a light to their faces and eyes as they watched me ease my daughter into sleep.

To one who was used to home and bed, the journey was hard, and I nigh despaired of matching my hardier kin who had lived off the Wild ere they settled near the Blue Mountains. But, for naught else, at the least I can say I have seen the Wild with my own eyes; slept upon its hard earth, eaten off its thin bounty, and climbed its sharp hills. It is beautiful, in its own, untamed way, and as equally intemperate and unforgiving. The men watched the horizon, their tension seen in the glitter of their eyes and the swiftness of their response should somewhat give them alarm.

My lord spoke little to me and when he did it was of the care he provided his wife and daughter. When not occupied with Elenir or tending to my wounds, much of his thought seemed to be on the road. When not with his daughter, his look was oft as grim and alert as that of his men. Yet, when night fell, my lord turned his back to the wind and rain and, drawing my arm under his own, wrapped our blankets about us three, his thumb playing idly upon the hairs at the nape of my neck, and left the watching to others. So we spent the nights, keeping Elenir warm between us.

Thus the days proceeded. We road upon paths beneath the shadows of hills crowned with ancient walls of stone and ruined towers until, after crossing the Last Bridge, the earth fell away and I saw, for the first under the rays of the setting sun, the great house of my lord's fostering.

Others have described its beauty. I have not the words, for it seemed a golden light shown shimmering deep in the valley, made of mist and sun and magic. Tall were its halls and high were its paths, and great was the water's roar from even far away. My lord sent no messenger ahead, but plodded along, now setting an easy pace. The hair prickled upon my neck and along my arms. From the corner of my eye I caught the flash of a fair face, dark hair, and eyes that glimmered beneath the leaves. Yet, when my head whipped around to look more closely, it was gone. It seems we were being watched, but the men made little of it, though I might stare between the boles of the trees as we pass, uncertain of what I had just seen.

When we arrived and rode beneath a high arch as were they trees of stone that stretched across the path, we were not unexpected. For there in the courtyard that opened to windows and doors, gardens and pathways, I found waiting the Master of Imladris and those of his household who must know my lord. There, too, I saw for the first with my own eyes, Arwen called Undómiel, the Lady of Rivendell. There she waits amongst the folk of her father's House, silent, with a bright, clear stone upon her breast that catches the westering sun and her hair unbound and laying as a dark cloak upon her back. I need no introduction, nor my lord to point her out, for as soon as my gaze lit upon on her, I knew her for her inability to look away from me.

There they stand, the mighty among the Eldar-race, fair and unspeaking and grave, beneath the lengthening shadows of the mountains.

With but a slight motion of his hand, my lord calls us to a halt. He dismounts, and, alone, comes to the midst of the flagstone expanse between Elder and Latter-born. There, to the murmurs and amazed looks of those gathered here, the Lord of the Dúnedain lowers himself to his knees and makes himself humble.

In the last, my lord may have opened his heart to me, but had I thought the years had spun out the tale of his love for the Lady, then I was badly mistaken. For there, on his knees and with emptiness around him, his look is of a man in the moment of shock when the blade is withdrawn and he knows himself overthrown. He seems to me to be pained with an open wound as fresh as the day it was first delivered upon him. I pity him. I know the fire in which he burns.

And I know now, too, the Lady suffers. She had not attempted to hide her examination of us. There her eyes touched upon the fading lines marring the skin of my brow and cheek. And when my lord dropped to his knees, it seemed she stumbled where she stood as had she just truly seen him as he was. Her gaze then searched among my lord's men for a child I knew she would not find. It seems that news from the Wilds of Eriador travels more slowly than have we. Mayhap she had recovered and stands regarding us solemnly from among the people of her father's House, but I know not, for I find I can no longer bear to look upon her. Surely, we cannot be welcome here and we have made the long journey for naught.

Only when the Master of Rivendell steps from among his folk can I breathe freely, for his face, though grave, holds naught of censure. Indeed, he stands afore my lord and touches upon his shoulder with a gentle hand.

"You have returned upon the very wings of the storm, Aragorn Dúnadan," he says. "Will you not rise?"

My lord rises from the stone to look upon the Master. Naught is said in words, but I think my lord feels much of gratitude and relief, for he clasps the hand that rests upon his shoulder.

He calls to us, and my daughter is lifted from my arms and I helped to dismount. We go to him, my daughter and I, she holding onto my fingers and looking about her with wide eyes. The clop of hoof, clanking of metal and groaning of leather gear sounds soft against the roar of the river as my lord's men dismount and lead our steeds away. To where, I know not, but it seems they know the way well.

At that, our hosts gather about my lord as he passes, each to say a word or touch upon his arm in welcome. Long the Lady's glance lingers upon my lord and he cannot bear it. She does not touch him, and should she give him but one word, I think he might bleed.

My daughter walks by my side as we follow my lord and Master Elrond, clinging with her small hand to my fingers. But when it comes to making our way through the crowd of these strangers my daughter turns to me, clutching at my skirts.

"_Mamil_," she says, her voice high and pleading. She raises her arms to me and, my arm yet in its sling, I go down to a knee so that she may clamber into my hold.

Had I more the mind for it, I would stare at the gardens and rooms we pass, for we come at the height of spring and I find the sensibility of the Elves much foreign to me. For the eaves of the forest press hard upon terraces and porches and chambers, such that their branches roof rooms of little more than one wall or two atimes. And all open upon the rushing mist of the river as it falls from the heights. I dare not look too far down, for, as we climb, the mountain tumbles below us. My daughter might beg to scramble up the paths on her own, but I refuse, and, after some fussing, she relents. For she is tired and, I think, once she allows me to hold her, would rather rest her head upon my neck and let her feet dangle.

We come now to a strange chamber. I know not were we standing in a common hall or in the Master's own private rooms, for there is no door that may be closed, but the furnishings are of a rich make and comfortable. Here we stop, and the Master turns his grave face upon my lord and speaks.

"Do not doubt of your welcome, my son," he says, and my lord bows his head.

"I had no right to expect it. I have not yet met your conditions," my lord says, but this is greeted with a shake of the head and a frown.

"Mayhap, but I trust you would not test its limits without necessity. I will not argue the point. But, come, take some refreshment, for I know your travels have not allowed it."

Here Master Elrond lays afore us finely made white cakes and pours a bright wine into cups of a make I know not, for they seem as leaves frozen into fair form. I suppose I must become accustomed to much that is strange to me. The cup my lord places in my hand and I drink of it, following his example. A look of startlement must have come upon my face at the taste, for the Master smiles faintly upon me.

"Will you not make me known to your lady, Aragorn?"

"Aye." My lord's hand comes to brush upon my arm. "_May I present to thee, Lord Elrond, my wife_, Nienelen,_ Lady of the Dúnedain_," he says stiffly.

Master Elrond's look measures me, and I feel as a small hare beneath the gaze of a hawk. It is not that I fear him, but his gaze is deep with many lives of men and, by its power, perceives me in ways I know not. I swallow the wine quickly and pray it shall not muddle my thoughts and voice. It is far more potent than I have e'er drunk afore.

"Lady Nienelen," he calls me, the silk of his voice giving my name new meaning. "_Thou art welcome in my house_," he says, bowing to me formally.

"_My thanks to thee_, Lord Elrond," I say, offering him a reverence.

"This is not your son," he says to me, puzzling at the child who blinks at him wordlessly from under my chin. I know I am expected to answer, but I have not the heart.

"No," my lord replies. At the Master's glance he goes on, saying in a flat voice, "My son is no more." His face is dull, a grim, blank look I cannot bear, and I turn away.

Instead, I look upon the master of this house, on whom we are now dependent. The elf-lord's eyes are as a deep well. Drained of will, he seems for a brief moment, and then he clasps my lord's shoulder, drawing him near.

"Come then," he says and turns his gaze upon my child, "tell me of this little one you have brought to the home of your childhood."

"Here you see my daughter, your kin from afar," my lord says, his voice gentling at the touch of one he had once called father. "She was born in my absence and I have just come to know her, or I would have sent notice of her birth. She is named Elenir."

Oblivious to the scrutiny she receives, my daughter has fallen into a drowse as we talk, sucking on her thumb and pressing her face into the base of my neck.

"Elenir," Elrond repeats and, stooping to see her better, brushes the back of his fingers above her cheek. "Bright, indeed," he says and smiles softly at the girl, though his eyes seem to see through the mists of time. "And so now, Aragorn, you will know the grief of a daughter's father."

He straightens and turns his smile upon my lord. "Your heart will no longer be your own, my son, for she will wind it about her small fingers, and you will be helpless to deny her aught she asks."

Acknowledging himself already defeated by his small foe, my lord lets loose a quiet huff of laughter.

"You are weary with grief, my son. Your coming was looked for and the rooms that were your mother's are ready. I do have terms, should you have come to beg safe shelter in my house, but I shall leave it to you to determine how best they may be met. We will talk but a little now. Take your rest, after. We will speak more upon the morrow."

My lord bows but is slow to raise his eyes. He toys with his cup and seems unsure what next to do. But he then sets it swiftly aside, for the Master of Imladris has opened his arms to my lord. They embrace as do men who have seen much loss and would not seek yet more. Harsh words may yet be spoken. Hard questions may yet require an answer. But it seems no words can unbind them, for the Master's hand comes to clasp my lord's head to him and holds him close in his grasp, as he were his child too long separated from him.

When he releases my lord, Master Elrond bows his good-night to me and my child. "Forgive me, Lady Nienelen, but I must ask your forbearance for just a little."

With that, he touches upon my lords' arm and leads him away.

I am not alone long, indeed, just long enough finish the cakes and offer my daughter some. I dare not eat too quickly for my unpracticed belly, but Elenir brightens and quickly devours the pieces I pull from the cakes for her, stuffing her face and leaving her hands sticky where she reaches out for more.

"Come," my lord says when he returns. His face is solemn, but he gives me no sign of his thoughts. Taking my cup from me and ushering me afore him, he then leads us through the halls, through twists and turn, terraces and balconies, until I am hopelessly lost.

At last we come to a short flight of stairs that opens upon a terrace. The river runs beyond its balustrade and o'er our heads nod branches laden with pink and white flowers of apple and pear.

While there is food for an even's meal and sweet water to drink waiting for us, there is but a single couch, and upon its surface there is just the room for one to lie upon it. 'Tis by this I know I will not be sleeping next to my lord. And true it is, for once he found linens, pillows, and a blanket of good, soft wool in a chest in the adjoining rooms, he begged my forgiveness, pleading the cause of tasks which needed his attention until late, and took his leave of us.

~oOo~


	61. Chapter 60

~ Chapter 60 ~

_This is our last parting, my son. I am aged by care, even as one of lesser Men; and now that it draws near I cannot face the darkness of our time that gathers upon Middle-earth. I shall leave it soon."_

_Aragorn tried to comfort her, saying: "Yet there may be a light beyond the darkness; and if so, I would have you see it and be glad."_

_But she answered only this: Ónen i-Estel Edain, ú-chebin estel anim_

LOTR: Appendix A: Here Follows a Part of the Tale of Aragorn and Arwen

~oOo~

In the morn, when my daughter's stirring wakes me, my lord is elsewhere, I know not where. We have slept late into the day, for the sun rides into the sky. Left to my own, I know not where to find my daughter somewhat to eat in this place but find with the nourishing food of the elves, safety, and rest, I can offer her to nurse. So we lay there, she and I upon this small terrace, and the flowers glow overhead with the sun's light as shells from the western sea. The branches lift gently in the breeze, letting in glimmers of bright, silver light and setting the leaves to dancing in layers of green. I stare at the sight, as were I enchanted by their simple magic.

Her cheeks warm with sleep and her lashes lined dark upon them, I watch my daughter. Her slumber yet clings to her and she is content to lay still and be quiet in her nursing as she is most oft not when fully awake. I lift her hand from my breast and kiss fingers that in turn scrabble at my nose. Her eyes open at my touch, but they are soft with sleep and her mouth busy. So she captures even the Master of Imladris, this little one. I smile. And why not?

We lie and soon fall to slumbering, she from her full belly and I from my heavy heart. For I am weary with the journey and holding aloft the crumbling walls of my lord's fortress. It is left now to others' hands. At rest, grief lies upon me and I sleep beneath its burden. I had thought my dreams would be of fear and loss unbidden, but they are not. Indeed, I dream of the river, of dragonflies skimming over glimmering water and reeds bending in the breeze. There, I linger and recall the scent of the grasses of the riverbank as they were when warmed by the summer sun.

Thus the morning wears away and I am not aware of the steps that approach, nor the shadow that falls upon the floor near where we lie.

"_Atto?_" my daughter calls, her voice thick with slumber.

"Aye, _lapsinya_," his voice whispers, "do you hunger?"

Dimly, I feel her nod against me, but I cannot move. My body feels as though I am plunged beneath deep, still waters, the world distant above me and I untouched below.

"Hush, quietly, your _ammë_ sleeps."

Her weight is lifted from me amidst the soft rustling of the bedclothes. Footsteps lead away, but do not go far. Loath am I to leave this place of dream and memory mixed. But, leave I must.

When the dream fades, and I bring myself to open my eyes, I find my lord with his daughter. He studies her as she clutches a crust of bread in her fist and balances her small feet precariously upon his lap. She seems less interested in eating than in bouncing upon his knees. He holds her secure and she is merry.

"Elenir," he calls softly, catching her eye.

She smiles her toothy grin at him in response, and slowly his face alights with joy. He presses a kiss to her cheek, lingering there. It comes to me, then, he looks upon her and breathes of her scent in the hope of imprinting what memories he can, stealing this moment ere he must leave again.

"_Atto!_ Stop! No tickle!" she protests, giggling and shrugging away from his beard.

He laughs gently with her. His face is both fond and sorrowful as he gazes upon her.

I make no noise that I know, but my lord's eyes find mine. "You slept well, lady?"

Elenir's gaze follows his, and she throws out her arms and abandons the crust of bread to the terrace floor.

"_Mamil!_"

She fusses and dangles her legs to the floor, impatient for the delay in his releasing her, but, rising, my lord brings her to me. There she clambers over my arms and legs until she is settled against my breast where I can dispense the caresses and kisses for which her bright face appeals.

My lord has come to sit upon the foot of the bench upon which we lie. There he watches. I have not answered his question and have little desire to give him satisfaction. In all our years, he has never had to ask how I spent my nights, having known the answer for himself. I pull my daughter's poppet from where it has become wedged between the mattress and the high back of the couch during our sleep, and her face brightens.

"My Mida! _Mamil!_ Mine!" she insists with her arms outstretched. When I place it in her reach, she clutches it tight to her breast ere thrusting it away to babble brightly at it and smooth the hair and dress to tidy the poppet.

"You leave soon, my lord?" I ask, doing much the same to my daughter.

"Aye," says he. "Master Elrond asks you treat his home as were it your own. You have been granted the services of one of the Lady of Rivendell's companions to show you what you need of his house and teach you the ways of its people."

I have settled Elenir comfortably in the crook of my arm and there she babbles softly to her poppet, atimes bouncing it upon her legs and atimes pretending to feed her.

"I would I had a gift to give in farewell, my lord," say I and, indeed, I regret the lack.

"I have one to ask of you."

At this, I look up to find my lord studying me with some hidden wariness. I offer my hand and he takes it. His fingers clasp mine and I worry at the pleading of which their warm pressure speaks.

"What would you have of me, my lord?"

"It may not be so simple to give, lady."

"You can but ask."

"I must beg you forgive me for bringing you here," he says, and though his face be resolute as always, I see there sorrow as well. "Were there other fastness in which to make you safe, I would have found it."

At this, I withdraw my hand. "It seems you should ask this forgiveness of another, my lord."

He does not reply, and a pain strikes my heart as had he loosed a bolt into my breast. His silence speaks where his words say naught. He sought her out as I slept and, ere he spoke to me, begged of her her pardon. For, in taking his hand, I find he wears a ring I have not seen afore. My lord is wont to go without adornment, but now wears a ring of twin serpents of silver with eyes of a green gem that flash with the light of the morning sun. There is but one other to whom he would have gifted such a thing, and that only in vow of betrothal.

I do not know why it had not occurred to me. For why else would he be so uncertain of our welcome, and so quick to humble himself to beg it. Indeed, my lord gives it no comment as had he assumed I knew. Ah, no wonder then how quick his face has been to darken with shame at any reminder. _Ai!_ I am a fool. I had not thought it had gone so far as that.

"Worry not," I say. "I shall not shame you with displays of ill-temper while you are gone, my lord."

"I had not thought it," he says. "I ask only for myself." And when I do not speak nor meet his gaze, he goes on, "I cannot yet earn your forgiveness, lady, but I would plead for your mercy all the same."

"My lord," I insist, an ache gathering swiftly behind my eyes, "you have it. I hold naught against you. As in all things, it shall be as it pleases you."

The look he bends upon me at this is full of weary reproach.

Aye, well, it is the best I can do. I will not place blame. I will not draw the attention of the master of this house and thus test his good will. Nor will I resent the lady who lays claim to my lord's heart, but to do more would be to abandon the very deepest rooms of my own heart in which he resides.

"Should this be what you would ask of me in parting, my lord, why are you not satisfied?" I ask, my voice growing crisp.

"Lady, I have not yet asked what I would have of you in parting."

"What, my lord? What is it you could ask of me I have not already given?"

I think his face now grows somewhat pained. "What I would wish, lady," he begins sternly, but then, with some effort, his voice softens, "I would have you not give in to despair but find your heart's comfort here."

I lie back upon the pillows, my palm splayed upon my brow. Here I have traveled far from my people, whom I have abandoned to the Shadow. I shall live in comfort while they live with hunger and fear and the near threat of death. The house and garden in which I have found a small measure of peace shall soon be overrun and fall to ruin. And all to live in a place whither I cannot share a bed with my husband and must, instead, watch as his heart dies a thousand deaths under another's regard, and then share table and hall with her while her father watches her heart do the same.

Even his lady mother had found her position here untenable after some time, and she had not these with which to contend. Is it any wonder, then, that I laugh?

At this, my lord sits all the more stiffly at my feet. "You think me a fool?"

"I think, my lord, I have never known you to ask for too little," I say with a wry, broken laugh and, for the sudden ache in my breast, close my eyes, for I do not wish him to see too closely into my heart. Or must he see, I would not know it.

I say when I trust my voice again, "Nor ever more than what must be given."

When I look about again, I find Elenir has fallen quiet, gazing at us with her solemn eyes. Here, with a pang, having become aware of my daughter, I sigh and smile upon her. She then twists about and presses deeply to my breast where I can run my hand through her dark curls and she occupies herself with some inscrutable game with her fingers. For a long moment we are thus and once she is easy, I speak.

"My lord, I cannot give you what you ask ere you leave. It is the work of more than one day. But I can give you my promise that I shall endeavor to be at peace upon your return."

"Then I shall hope for it," says he, it seems with some relief.

"Come, _lapsinya_," I whisper and her little face tilts of a sudden to mine. I rise from the couch. I am hungry and thirsty and wish to begin whatever day awaits me.

"This lady who comes to guide me, am I to go to her?" I ask as I settle my daughter upon my hip and go to the tray of fruits, drink, and prepared foods my lord has carried hither.

"No, she will find you here."

I nod.

My child finely balanced against me, I lean down to pick up a slice of a sweetly smelling, golden fruit. I know it not, but nibble cautiously of it, for, after the poor rations of winter, I know my belly unused to such rich commons. I think, mayhap, I should restrain myself, though it tastes of summer and sunshine and clear wine, and so take up the cup instead. I have my back to him, but I know my lord rises and stands silent as I drink from it.

"Am I to depart without your blessing, lady?"

I turn to him. "You leave so soon?"

"Even now."

Now I truly look at my lord as he stands at the foot of my new bed. Pink and white petals of flowering trees flutter about him in the rising breeze, the light of morning in his eyes. No matter weary, nor grieved, nor shamed; he is as fair as ever. He wears the clothes I crafted for him. Carries the blanket of which I taught him the weaving. Has packed the food I prepared for him, carried from the home I made for him. I weary of wondering what the Lady of Rivendell gives him I cannot.

"No, never that," I say and lay down both cup and child. For the moment, she is content to splay her small fingers about its rim and tip the cool water to her mouth.

When I slip against my lord's breast and embrace him, his arms tighten about me and his face presses deep into my hair. He smells of leather and wool and the cleanness of soap. He breathes deeply, and his breast rises against me. My blessing is without words, but truly I wish him safe upon the road and safe in his return.

When he releases me and would go, I turn my back to reclaim my child.

~oOo~


	62. Chapter 61

~ Chapter 61 ~

_'But the Queen Arwen said: 'A gift I will give you. For I am the daughter of Elrond. I shall not go with him now when he departs to the Havens; for mine is the choice of Luthien, and as she so have I chosen, both the sweet and the bitter. But in my stead you shall go, Ring-bearer, when the time comes, and if you then desire it. If your hurts grieve you still and the memory of your burden is heavy, then you may pass into the West, until all your wounds and weariness are healed. But wear this now in memory of Elfstone and Evenstar with whom your life has been woven!'_

_And she took a white gem like a star that lay upon her breast hanging upon a silver chain, and she set the chain about Frodo's neck. 'When the memory of the fear and the darkness troubles you,' she said, 'this will bring you aid.'_

ROTK: Many Partings

~oOo~

My daughter tugs at my hair, mixing both mortal and elven words in a bright babble that makes me smile as I carry her from the Hall of Fire. She needs naught but an occasional glance or word of assent from me to continue her incomprehensible tale of some event from the day. Here, she, at least, thrives. It seems her limbs lengthen, and her feet grow more sure most every day. She does not cling as tightly and will abandon herself to her amusements more readily. Oft her immortal playmates take her dancing beneath the stars during the cool summer nights and there she leaps after them and claps her hands in delight. She, at the least, lights their faces with smiles for her antics.

Our hosts' tolerance for her capering about the pillars and chasing them around the hearth seems to have no limit, but I have mine. Once the lords and ladies of Rivendell enter the Hall, they will begin the playing and singing of songs from far Elvenhome and tonight it is time for Elenir to retire elsewhere.

Most oft, in our evens in the Hall of Fire, Elenir plops herself into some random, welcoming lap and stares entranced at the singer. I, in turn, wait for the even to end. For oft does the Lady's gaze turn to my daughter, and, clear it is, it brings her no joy. It takes not much wit to know where her thoughts tend. My own thoughts run not to the rising of tall, bright walls of carven stone, nor the pounding of hooves set to a hunt beneath stars that outshone the moon of their singing, but to the sudden stillness that comes upon folk should I turn a corner and appear unannounced, the hollow windows that are the eyes of the daughter of the Lord of Rivendell, and the breaking of her father's heart.

Tonight, even the elves cannot get Elenir to settle. I could not be more grateful for the reprieve. So, as we walk, my daughter croons and yanks at my hair in attempt to mimic the harp player whom we have left to his now fully attentive audience.

She is not one to remain within the confines of our small rooms for too long, my daughter, in this she is much as her hosts. Instead, we walk the paths and gardens, there finding faces that smile in delight and somewhat of longing at seeing a creature so young. She lacks not for companionship, and I envy my daughter the ease of her youth, for I find my days long here in the hidden Vale. Now that I have little to occupy my thoughts, the days weigh heavily upon me. I have little desire for aught, neither speech nor attention of another creature, nor the singing that drifted atimes o'er the valley.

It seems even the great House of Imladris is not untouched by the troubles that befell the North. There have been apologies for the spareness of their table and unvaried nature of the fare laid upon it, but I have little I can offer in response beyond the timeworn courtesies of a guest. Peppery eggs stuffed with herbs and leeks, chilled soups of berries and cream, white fish in tart sauces, pies of venison and salted pork, mushrooms fried in butter, spiced honey walnuts, roasted roots, and greens of more variety than I had seen afore are set afore me. Striking in their beauty and the craft of their makers, but, to me, they taste of naught but dust. Now I have no need to go hungry, I find my stomach dull and wayward in its appetites.

But this is not my house and to refuse to partake of what is offered would give great offense. And so, I put aside thoughts of the privation I have left behind so I may be courteous to my companions at table. I eat. I sleep. I care for my daughter. And, to my shame, atimes even that is too great a burden, and the effort to rise from my bed overcomes what little will I have left. Oft do my thoughts turn to the Lady Gilraen and her loneliness, with only her young son and the mortal memories of a love too quickly lost for company. I understand, now, the wearing burden of her care and wish I had known her.

In truth, I know not why I complain. My hosts are gracious in all things. The promised lady did indeed seek me out. There she found me sitting upon the floor. A feast of high proportions, great haunches of venison, puddings and cakes did Elenir and I conjure from the cups and tray my lord had brought with food to break our morn's fast. I do not recall my son playing thusly, and I wonder at the lessons taught my daughter by our seasons of hunger. But I do not fault her for it. How could I when her face lights with giddy laughter when I set the cups to dancing about the tray to my tuneless whistling in poor imitation of our people's pipes?

I thought mayhap the lady would look upon us with disdain, me dusty from travel, disheveled with sleep, and yet still bearing the mark of claws and teeth, the Lady of the Dúnedain sitting amidst the leaves that drift through the chambers of Imladris. But, instead, her face brightened, and she came swiftly to join us, and we made merry with what little we had. Later, she brought playthings of better make and I learned her name, Tithiniel. Each time she came, she brought somewhat new, and I wondered at it.

I want for naught but occupation for my hands, and my lord. In their stead, my thoughts have too much to keep them busy. For few among even the great of the Elder-born dared face the Witch-King, of old our enemy. Fey and bright were their eyes. Wild was their hair whipped by a wind strong with the scent of turning leaves and the snow gathering upon the tips of the Misty Mountains. There few they gathered in the courtyard, the elven-lords who mounted and prepared ride out. For the Nine are abroad and the Witch-king of Angmar, he who is the _Butcher of Umbar_ and the Lord of the Nazgul, has returned to the North.

Ah, but I fear for my lord and his Rangers. 'Tis said no man can hinder their captain. And yet it will come to them to shield the folk of the North from this threat. Mortal flesh seems a poor weapon against the wraiths of that great shadowed land we name not. I think my fears much reflected in the Lady's mind, for her face was grim and eyes bleak.

Pinpricks of silver dot the glimpses of the even's sky o'erhead and, soon, Elenir will begin to yawn and fall silent. She is heavy in my arms and we make our way slowly. There is nowhere to be and no need for hurry. We meet few others in the halls and terraces, for most of the peoples of Rivendell are attending their lord. But, as we pass through winding halls, light voices draw my eye and I blink in surprise and swiftly look away.

Beneath the lantern hanging above the entrance to the Master and his family's private rooms, I have caught a glimpse of the Lady of Rivendell with her dark hair bound in intricate braids. In the warm pool of light, there her head inclines and she is speaking in low tones with Tithiniel, whom I have trusted.

I turn and quicken my feet but cannot outrun the image of the Lady pressing somewhat into her companion's hands. Their glance when my footsteps and my daughter's voice interrupt them is swift and keen. I cannot shake the feeling they were speaking of me, for the lilt of their voices ceased hard upon my passage nearby.

I suppose I could not have made it more plain to the Lady that I know of my lord's attachment to her. I wish her no ill, but I could not bear the lady's glance upon me and were she to speak, I know not how or should I be able to answer.

The smiles I offer to Elenir have become thin and I cannot give her my full attention for the thoughts that run through my head. Had it been some prick of conscience that stilled their voices? I sigh. Sure it is my lord should have begged my forgiveness for bringing me hither. Not only have I no place amongst these gracious but foreign folk, but now, it seems, naught of my own. Ever my words and movements are under scrutiny, even, it becomes clear, in my own chambers.

What has Tithiniel told her lady of me, I wonder? What would the Lady know of the wife of her errant lover? Intrigue seems as a sticky net that draws ever tighter about me and I have no safe place to which to retreat to consider my path. A last refuge from danger, my lord called this place. Aye, but it affords little shelter from unfriendly eyes, and my neck and shoulders bear the tension of being ever watchful.

At last we reach our rooms; my daughter having fallen silent and lain her head down as my moving feet rocked her upon my shoulder. Her eyes are only half-closed, and she murmurs sleepily when I lay her upon the couch we share.

"_Mamil_," she says, and I sit beside her so I might draw my hand through her soft curls. "I want to see _Atto_."

I marvel at what must have reminded her of her father, so short their time had been together. "Nay, little one, he is not here, but you shall see him when he returns. Would you like that?"

She nods and then presses her face more deeply to the pillows. I am smoothing the covers about her shoulders and have yet to kiss her farewell to her slumbers when I hear a voice calling to me softly.

"Lady?" I hear, and I know the voice. It is Tithiniel and she stands just beyond the door. It seems she followed upon my heels, her light footsteps mingled with mine so as to be disguised.

When I go to the door, I find her eyes take me in with some slight wariness to their glance.

"She sleeps?" she asks, peering beyond my shoulder and into the room where the still form of my daughter lies.

"Aye, I think her well-worn from the day," I say and step back from the door.

"Ah, then, lady, should you allow me, I shall watch her," she says, entering, and I wonder at the long purse she carries. Gaily stitched it is with bright threads upon a black cloth and silken tassels hang from the cords that close it. "Go and enjoy the music, you have had so little chance to hear it."

She must see the perplexity with which I fix upon what she carries, for her brows rise. "Ah, I bring you a gift. You have not asked for it, but I know you restless."

With that, she hands me the purse and goes to my daughter, the ends of her unbound hair brushing the cloth as she looks upon her. Tugging upon its mouth, I find a dark wood deep within the purse. Black it is as the Lady's hair and as fine, and I withdraw the spindle from its wrappings. Carefully balanced and finely engraved, I spin it upon the point of my finger and can find no fault with it.

Tithiniel seems satisfied that Elenir rests peacefully and needs no other care. "Upon the morrow, my Lady says you may take what roving you desire. There is wool, and flax too, ready to be spun to linen. But I would be happy to teach you the way of working with the cocoons of the silkworm, should you like."

My doubt must play across my face and, even should it not, I have said naught of thanks.

"You may visit the weaving hall as oft as you like and take whatever you need," says Tithiniel, and then smiles, laughing and pushing upon my shoulders gently. "Go enjoy the music, lady. For you are weary past speech yourself and I think you shall find refreshment in the hall."

And so I go, leaning upon her kindness yet again. And though I can give myself up to its beauty unreservedly, not having to worry about where my daughter rests and whom she pesters with her playing, I find, rather than losing myself in the tales of times long ago, I spend my time wondering how much of what I now have, dress and bedclothes, cup and plaything, have been of the Lady Arwen's giving.

~oOo~


	63. Chapter 62

AN: An explicit version of this chapter can be found on AO3. My penname is the same there as here.

~ Chapter 62 ~

"_When the kingdom ended the Dúnedain passed into the shadows and became a secret and wandering people, and their deeds and labours were seldom sung or recorded. Little now is remembered of them since Elrond departed."_

Appendix A: Annals of the Kings and Rulers

~oOo~

"Nay, lady, leave that."

I falter in scraping the last of the bowls of the remains of our meal. So fine are their make, it seems an insult to leave them to grow sticky and resistant to all but the most vigorous of scrubbing. It can be naught but an inconvenience for the kitchen.

"I will take them when we wake," says my lord softly, raising a hand to urge me to him where he sits amongst a pile of cushions and a mattress upon the floor, there at the foot of the couch where his daughter sleeps. "Come."

And so, laying the bowl upon the stack of plates and fussing with the cups so they do not jangle and rattle one tother when he shall pick it up, I leave the tray my lord brought with him upon a table just inside the door.

I had seen their arrival. So weary my lord and the halflings they could bare stumble their way upon the paths of Rivendell. Glad was I the elf-lord had found them, for he bore them up, his fair face drawn and his hand touching upon them. Even my lord seemed at his limit, whose back bends most readily to labor, his shoulders sagging as were he bearing a great weight. And then did my hands smart where I clenched them into fists so I would not reach to my lord, and my face burned for the shame. For the first time in our shared years, I was permitted no more than to turn away at the sight of his suffering.

Mayhap my lord had long ago been given his own rooms when he reached an age where they were warranted. For I did not see him ere we retired to our own rest and knew not whether he had cast himself down upon a bed or bench elsewhere, or spent his time in a haze of the tedium of council. 'Twas not until the small hours ere dawn I knew him there. The lack of warmth from the small body that most oft clung to me through the night awoke me. And, indeed, his daughter had clambered of herself o'er my knees and to the floor, there to be found clutched against her father's side, his arm her pillow and her curls a blanket upon them. We did not speak then, nor gave each other greeting, for he was gone ere I awoke and had left his daughter curled in the nest he left behind.

I thought then I might catch glimpse of him upon the even, though it be from across a hall filled with folk. We were called to attend upon the Lady of Imladris who sat in her father's place at their feasting. But it was not to be so. I had no warning of my lord's intent but his feet upon the short rise of steps. He bore with him a tray laden high with food meant for our host's table. We were not to attend upon the mighty of Rivendell at their meal after all, it seemed. His greeting was glad, but he could not meet my eyes at the first.

And so, instead of appearing together, he did his best to make merry and cut small pieces of roasted meats and breads and other preparations of which I had no knowledge and fed them to his wife and daughter. Each had a tale of his time among the elves of the Hidden Vale, from his mother's favorite pudding of dates and cream curdled in wine, to roast duck in a sweet sauce he recalled as a child. There he set his daughter to giggling as he tickled her belly and told her silly stories of a wayward goose and the young boy who had been set to catching her and begging for her eggs.

So weary was he upon the first even of his return, he built up a fire in the brazier upon the terrace and lay his back upon the cushions, placing his head in my lap. We spoke little. The past held too much of grief to bear in words; the future too much of uncertainty. He drew his daughter onto his breast, at first with the intent to sing the simple songs of childhood with her, but soon his limbs grew heavy and his eyes closed. Elenir soon tired, too, of her fruitless attempts to wake her father. And so, ere she became fretful and woke him with her fussing, straining against the weight of my lord's head in my lap, I dug her poppet from the couch. Clutching it to her, she lay upon her father's breast and sucked on her fingers. I then drew my fingertips through their hair as they slept and listened to the soft sounds of elven voices as they passed beyond the screen of tree limbs and balustrade and the distant roar of the Bruinen.

Once he regained his strength, he sat upon the cushions after our meal as our daughter slept and drew me to his lap. He ran his thumb across the skin of the long bones of my hand and together we watched the flames as they danced within the covered hearth indoors. For though the days were warm, the nights were chill with the press of walls of stone about the valley and the rising mist of the river. Though he came to us smelling of pipeweed, he had none of his own to smoke, and I had not found the courage to steal wool from the Lady's weaving hall and so lacked aught of the drawing of thread to entertain him.

Such was then to be the pattern of our hours when my lord was in Rivendell. I knew not where he spent his days nor when I would next see him. But he came to us in the evens, when the sun slipped behind the high cliffs and the sky yet glowed with its light and sent ripples of gold and red down the river. The sun would set, and I would hear his soft steps upon the stairs without and his calling to us, or when the evens grew cold, his light tapping upon the door begging to be let within. But, just as like, should we not be called to attend upon the Lord and Lady, we would eat our meal without him, Elenir and I. Oft, then, it seems still he would return to us, though late was the hour. For I would wake the next morn and find the cushions at the foot of the couch where my daughter and I slept, and a pillow that yet held the imprint of his head, turned so he may look upon us lit by the wheel of stars that shown bright o'erhead in the thin air of the mountains or by the waning flames within the covered hearth.

My lord lifts his cup, putting it aside when he pulls me to him. His hands about my waist, he lowers me to his lap and there takes in a deep breath when I settle against him. Tithiniel's clever fingers have woven the small, fragrant blossoms of the high meadows in the braids about my head. There he presses his face and breathes deeply, kissing above my ear ere pulling me more closely to his breast as he leans his back against the cushion propped up behind him and sighing. He is warm, and real, and there.

There among the pillows upon the floor, we sit together. I do not know if he avoids the heavier wines apurpose, but, though heady, the smell is light and smells faintly of the sharp green tang of apples and rising of sap. With my ear pressed to his shoulder, I can feel the pull of sinew in his neck and hear the rush of each swallow as he drinks from his cup above my head. Warm and comforted the weight of his hand upon me, I listen, and do my best not to think of naught outside the circle of his arm.

Naught catches upon my thoughts so much as the tickle of silk shot through with flecks of gilt thread upon his breast. I run my fingertips across the cloth of his long vest and puzzle out the complex knots of its closures and the weaving of long spiraled arms of silver stars amidst a deep blue the color of the horizon at sunset. 'Tis of the finest wear in which I have seen my husband clothed, and I cannot think of how such a thing might be made.

When I do not take up the telling of tales of his daughter's doings or what little I know of events about us to lighten either of our moods, 'tis then my lord speaks, his voice soft and close to my ear. First, I learn all he knows of Isildur's Bane, from its fashioning in the forge of Mount Oroduin, to its hiding place beneath the Misty Mountains, to the pitiful creature twisted by long years bearing it.

"I had not credited their resolve, nor their resilience," he says, speaking of his companions upon the road hither. It seems he has grown fond of them, for his voice has softened some. "Which is a good, for, when we found him on the other side of the river, I thought sure Frodo was dead, so cold and pale was he."

Even I had heard the Lord of Imladris' swift flight to meet them, the hooves of their small company rattling amongst pillars and covered paths, and had seen the halfling borne hither beneath his watchful eye.

"Will he recover, do you think?" I ask and my lord makes a small, startled sound. It seems he was submerged deep in his thoughts.

"He must!"

"I hope he shall," he goes on, placing his hand upon the cup by his hip and rubbing his thumb upon its rim ere taking it up, "indeed for our own sake as well as his. A pitiable tale it would make, do you not think, to travel through such threats as we faced only to lose him in the end, and the Mighty among the Free Folk to then fall to wrangling over the thing he bore so bravely and with such hope that we would aid him."

He falls to a somber silence after he drinks from his wine.

"Alas! Had I but been more vigilant upon Amon Sûl!" He rubs vigorously at his face. "But I was too careless there and Gandalf was not with us."

He sighs and his hand falls to my thigh, where he plucks at the folds of cloth upon it.

"But, we are no longer alone upon the Wild and forced to a decision," he says, his hand stilling upon me. "It is no longer in my hands what shall happen to Frodo should he succumb to his wound and become subject to the will of the Ring's Master. And for that, lady, should I not be allowed to hope for his recovery, I am very grateful."

I do not like the grim sound of his voice and straighten so I may look upon his face, rising from his breast. He does not return my gaze, and, indeed, his eyes flicker to catch upon somewhat upon my dress where the broidered work catches the light. _ Ai!_ This, too, I have seen too oft of late; this mix of grief and shame hidden beneath a thin gloss of stubborn resolve.

"You think you would have forced it from him, or worse?"

He winces, a pained look flashing upon his face.

"I have seen it," he says, and it seems his voice trapped in his throat for all he can bare force words or breath from it. "And it is fair," he grates out between gritted teeth, ere he swallows hard and harsh upon the words.

He downs the last of the wine in his cup in a swift pull and sets it upon the floor with a clank.

"But, still, my lord, you succeeded," I say, and I know not why, but of a sudden I am deeply frightened.

"Aye, well, it is here," he says, "and now in the hands of the Council to decide what is to become of it. I know what shall be my vote; it shall be to destroy this thing utterly. Even the thought of it is perilous."

I wonder with what it tempted my lord, and should I have caught the change in him upon his return had the fates not turned upon somewhat so simple as the ringing of bells upon the harness of an elf-lord's horse.

It takes him by some surprise when I rise from his arms, though it is but to turn and then lift my skirts about my hips so I might straddle him. Still, he allows it. His hands come to rest upon my thighs. Lightly he rubs at the velvet of my skirts with his thumbs. For the Lady of Rivendell has dressed me in garments of a dark red silk broidered in threads of gold more fine than even I wore when I was wed, and the cloth is soft and no doubt warmed by the skin beneath it.

"I think, my lord," I say and take a strand of his hair fallen from his temple between my fingers and smooth it back in place, "we are very lucky it was you who was sent to find them. And I am lucky, too, that you have returned to us as you are, no matter how weary and heartsore and afraid. I know it is sure to be but the first of your trials. But you succeeded where those afore you failed. I know not upon what you drew strength to resist. But, whatever it is, I am grateful for it."

His smile in response is slight and a little sad, but he takes my hand briefly in his and presses a kiss upon its knuckles. "Should it bring you hope, then I am glad for it."

I know not should he believe truly in what he says, but his eyes fix upon my lips. And that, I think, shall be enough.

He allows the running of my fingers upon his jaw and down the thin skin upon his neck where I can feel the thrum of blood from the beating of his heart. My kisses, too, he allows. Sweet and soft he returns their touch, his lips warm and pliant when I take them between mine but seeking no more than what I ask. For long moments there is naught to hear but the spatter of rain against the tile roof with the freshening breeze, the wet slip of lip on lip, and the rustle of silk where he runs the tips of his fingers in long sweeps upon arms and back. But it is when I dare deepen the kiss, with my body pressed to him and the stiff cloth of his tunic scratching the backs of my thighs that he halts and puts me away from him. But he does not rise nor refuse, nor gentle me on to some milder display of affection as once he used to. Instead, he searches my face.

"_Come my lord, thou are at rest, wouldst thou refuse the comfort thy wife would offer thee?_" I run a finger through the tickle of the soft hair of his beard to the cleft of his chin. "_I would have my husband bed me,_" I say with an attempt at a clever smile and he twitches beneath me where I rest upon him.

And yet he does not move but regards me solemnly. For a long moment he is silent, as though unsure of what I had just asked of him.

When he moves, his hand comes to brush the backs of his fingers upon my cheek. "Do you truly wish this or seek only to please me?"

I cannot bear to look upon him, and crumple so that my face rests against his shoulder.

_Ai! _Even this I cannot do aright.

"My lord, should you not desire this, I beg you tell me plainly," I say, my voice muffled against the cloth of his long vest. "Do not leave me wondering where your thoughts tend."

His hands runs up my thighs to pool the soft silk of my skirts about my lap. He comes near to speak low in my ear and the scent of bay leaf and sheep's milk soap is so strong on him somewhat twitches in my belly at the memory.

"Lady, my desire for you is as an ache in my bones no rest can allay," he says ere he sighs and withdraws. "But I am well versed in the wait. You need not push yourself to give what you do not have just to please me."

_Ai!_ For all my attempts to greet him with a glad smile and agreeable form wrapped in the silken cloth and flowers of our hosts, I have not fooled him. Indeed, now he has started upon this path, his voice grows more heated the longer he speaks.

"_I am thy husband and would welcome what comfort thou art ready to give, but put no pretenses afore me in attempt to beguile me, wife, nor return to paring away parts of yourself for what thou deemst is to my benefit. I have not asked it of thee. I do not wish it. I have never wished it. I have asked more of thee than any other and I have seen the cost. But each time thou hast taken that small, sharp blade to thyself it but stirs doubt in my heart as to the nature of thy consent to give all thou hast sacrificed at my behest!_"

In the past, such words from my lord would have blinded my thoughts to all but the beating of my heart, but it is his heart that beats in my ear, quickening with his words, as had he been running, not sitting upon cushions and cradling his wife to him.

"_Thou art the Lady of the Dúnedain. _Ask plainly of me what you wish, and it is yours," he commands.

It is some time ere I can speak, for, in truth, so much conflicts in my mind I am unsure what I truly want. I listen, instead, to the pounding of my lord's heart beneath my ear and ride the tightly coiled movement of his breast.

Oh, so petty have been my thoughts in the world he has woven of the great forces moving about us. What heed gives the storm to the leaf it has torn from the tree of its birth? Whither it is flung and its fate have no bearing on the tale. And yet, leaf that I am, I do not wish to be forced to beg for scraps of the comfort that should be mine.

"I wish you to show me that you are here, with me," I say in a voice so small I cannot help but despise the sound of it.

He takes my face firmly between his hands to lift my head. I must stare at him, a pang of guilt closing my throat. _ Ai!_ He had been weeping and I had not discerned it.

"I am here," he says, his voice firm and keen eyes sharp upon mine. "_Put thy mind to rest. I made my choice._"

Oh, _ai!_ Would that my heart listened more closely, and my head might be more silent.

With my hands clutching at the cloth of his vest, it is I who pulls him to me. He comes willing, his arms wrapped about and crushing me against his breast as his mouth works upon mine. He tastes at first of the bite of apple and musk of oak of the wine but soon I can discern naught but the tingle of the brush of his tongue and the sharp tug of his teeth. They are not tender, nor soft, his kisses. But neither are mine, and should the running of his thumbs upon my sides make somewhat inside begin to throb in time with my heart, he in turn groans when I nip at the corner of his mouth, tugging and licking at the skin upon jaw and cheek and then neck where he taste of salt.

I thought mayhap he might slow and his touch grow gentle. But this is not so. Already his hands run upon my thighs. The broad tips of his fingers bite, and with a sharp tug he pulls me flush against him. Aye! That! That is what I wish. I want him gasping for breath and unable to think. I cling to him. The tip of my tongue drawing upon the tender skin beneath his ear sets him to breathing deep and moaning.

Unfocused as they are, his eyes do not fix upon me when I push him away, and, at first, his groan of frustration sounds more like unto a growl than aught else. But then, I am pulling at the ties upon his vest and he joins me. With clumsy hands made frantic by the wait, we yank at his buttons made of precious stones and closures whose construction confound me. But at last we have drawn tunic and vest and shirt off his body and tossed them aside, and I can run my hands upon him as he fumbles and jerks at the ties holding his breeches closed. Ah, the blessedness of the warmth of his skin o'er shoulders and arms and breast.

_Ai!_ It has truly begun to rain, and only now am I aware of the drumming of water upon the tile o'erhead and the chill upon air seeping in beneath the door, for though the fire is warm upon my back, a draft draws prickles across the skin of my lord's breast. And so I lean close and run my mouth upon the skin of his breast and shoulders while his hands jerk at knots and ties beneath me. 'Tis then somewhat rips with his tugging upon it and he curses.

"_Ai! _ Lady, your fingers are the more clever for these things. Could you not – "

I latch upon his lips and brush his fingers aside. No words. I have heard enough of them and do not wish for more.

He groans, clutching at my shoulder and running his fingers beneath the low line of my dress.

"Would you,_ I beg thee,_ lady –"

He may not say it, but I know what he wishes. He does not stop me and seems to give no thought to what he might want, but is content to allow whatever touch I deem best, whether it is to speed him to completion or draw curses from his lips with my teasing. It is this, more than his mouth upon me that brings heat and makes me ache. We are, finally, of a height and when we settle together, he need not bend his head to me nor I press to my toes to meet him.

So beautiful the heaving of his breast and sweet the slip of his breath upon my cheek, yet when he would press his fingers to me to urge us to greater pleasure, I wrap my hand about his wrist and pull his hand from me.

He stills, drawing back and searching my face. "Do you not wish – "

"No," I say and press his back to the cushioned wall behind him.

So hungered is his look, I cannot not bear it, but place my hand upon his cheek where he might turn his face into my palm and, at last, close his eyes. No matter the warmth and satisfaction that rises from our coupling, a veil lies between my heart and the world, and little touches it. And so, it is the rising of blood upon his breast and neck and the soft burst of cursing between tightly held breaths in which I find pleasure. No matter the restless shifting of limbs nor his straining in an arch against the cushions, I am unmoved until I catch but a glimpse of joy bursting upon his face when he curls against me and clutches me to him.

Ah, lady," he says when he can next speak. He laughs softly between the heaving of his breast. He has released me and lies back against the cushioned wall, his hands lying upon my hips and chasing folds of cloth up my sides. "I am in your debt. You must give some thought to how you wish it paid."

He wipes at his face and sniffs, ere releasing a long, sighing breath and settling. He smiles at the touch of my fingers upon the rim of his lips and kisses their tips as they pass.

I am unsure what he sees when he opens his eyes, but such had been the light shining upon his face at our coupling, my heart had brimmed o'er with yearning for him, as were he far, far away beyond hope or touch and not lax and warm beneath me, nor I, with the pleasure of it thrumming through sinew and belly and my heart pounding.

He takes my hand and presses its palm to his cheek, putting a halt to my soft, questing touch upon his lips.

"When you are ready, then," he says.

Rising from where he rests against the cushion, he cups my face in his hands and presses his brow against mine. He then whispers in the small space between us where we share breath.

"I am here," he says. "I will not say your fears are unfounded, lady. Though I am sure of my course, it would be cruel of me to deny I have given you reason for doubt. Put me to the test, should you need to.

"But, _hiril nin_," he goes on, brushing his thumb upon my cheek and pressing his lips gently to the side of my nose, "no man leaves a battlefield untouched. You have a long road you must travel on your return. I know it well. _I shall wait for thee as thou didst for me. _ Do not despair for its length_._

"I am here. Come back to me."

~oOo~


	64. Chapter 63

~ Chapter 63 ~

"_There they made a refuge for all the enemies of the king, and a lordship independent of his crown. Umbar remained at war with Gondor for many lives of men, a threat to its coastlands and to all traffic on the sea. It was never again completely subdued until the days of Elessar; and the region of South Gondor became a debatable land between the Corsairs and the Kings."_

Appendix A: Annals of the Kings and Rulers

~oOo~

My lord has asked to see his daughter and I bring her to him.

I did not attend the feast in honor of the Halfling's return to health and the victory at the Fords of Bruinen. Though I have had glimpses of his elder and his companions in the halls, gardens, and woods of this place, I did not sit at the table to sup with them, nor, though I might wish to speak again with Lord Mithrandir, did I attend the festivities in the Hall of Fire afterward. For my little one was ill.

A trifling thing it was, I know, merely one of the many aches and fevers that plague the very young when the nights grow chill. But the sight of her clammy face and the sound of the restlessness in her voice filled me with an unreasoning fear. So, overcoming my pride, for what wife did not know where her husband was, I sent for him. At my word, my lord came to our chambers and went swiftly to her.

He had sent word not to expect him and to attend the feast without him, but, when he answered my call, my lord was dressed as I had ne'er seen him afore; as an elven prince in shining mail, his freshly-trimmed, black hair arrayed about his shoulders and a dark cloak of good green cloth falling down his back. A bright stone I knew not shone at his breast. And yet, above it all his face was taut and pale with a dread that did little to ease my own heart as he laid the back of his hand to Elenir's brow and drilled me on his daughter's care.

But it seems the fever had broken, and she was on the mend. When this became clear to him, his face softened, and he drew a chair to her bedside, reassuring me with a smile, and held her hand. There we sat and watched our daughter sleep as the singing from the Hall of Fire drifted in over the terraces, mingling with the roar of the Bruinen and the distant scent of fallen leaves. But, soon, rising, he pleaded the call of duty that would keep him away for the next days. Even then, he released his daughter's fingers only upon extracting a promise I would bring her to see him some day after, should she be well.

It seemed to me that still his thoughts remained with her. For later that night Tithiniel begged entrance and insisted I sleep while she watched the child. My lord must have spoken to the Lady of Rivendell of our daughter's illness and my vigil, and in sending her companion to relieve me she did me yet another kindness I could not fully comprehend.

In the days following, councils to which I was not privy filled my lord's time. The halls and terraces of Rivendell were silent. A hush had fallen upon them that seemed to mute even the river's voice. The only sounds come in the muffled speech from the Master's council chambers. It was as were all of Rivendell holding its breath, awaiting word of the outcome of their debates.

'Twas from Tithiniel I heard rumor of the coming of sons of kings, stewards, and dwarven warriors. I marveled at the lord of Gondor who had come so far from the South Kingdom and tried to catch my glimpse of him. I have never chanced to meet our kin to the south, though my lord lived so long in their midst. But it was not to be. Mayhap it was best. Should I have come upon him, I did not wish to be forced to explain who I was and what I did here to the son of the House of the Stewards. I did not think I could dissemble so well as to hide the curiosity of a mortal woman of the Dúnedain alone with her child in the House of the Elder-born. Instead, after a time, I spent my day in my rooms and avoided all company. It was not until the morning of the day after the Council I heard from my lord, calling his daughter to him.

A silver light fills the valley as we walk, my daughter and I, following Tithiniel as she leads us through twisting paths. The day has dawned bright and clear, the ribbon of sky above the riven valley the thin blue of autumn. At my lord's request, I carry my daughter and follow the music of a small stream as it winds its way through groves of beech and hawthorn. The rains that come in the coolness of the night have struck leaves to the forest floor, where they lie in a soft carpet of gold and red. The hawthorns hang heavy with their red fruit and the blackbirds and chaffinches squawk as they squabble over their feast in the branches.

We turn upon the path, Tithiniel's laughter light and my daughter giggling at somewhat said I did not catch, but stop of a sudden. For, afore us stands an elf-lord of Master Elrond's council and, beside him, a man of whom I had only heard. Tall he is, though not of my lord's height, but broader of shoulder. His straight, dark hair lies in a fall from his brow and sways above fur of a deep pelt I do not recognize lying upon his shoulders. Richly embroidered with threads of gold is his clothing, though worn and stained with his travels, and a thick collar of silver lay upon his breast on which was fixed a white stone. It could be none other than the Lord of the Tower of Guard, eldest son of Lord Denethor, Steward of Gondor, and his heir.

He has faltered and fallen back a step. There he frowns at me ere he says somewhat I cannot understand. 'Tis not speech I have ever heard afore. 'Tis strange, its sounds, after so long with the lilt of elvish speech in my ears. Though I know it not, clearly it was said with tones of both query and demand.

I cannot think what response he wishes, but ere I can draw breath and call for an accounting for his manner, Tithiniel's hand has come upon my arm to lead my daughter and I away, and I have put my back to him.

The lord repeats the same phrase behind us, forming each sound with greater care and raising his voice, as were the words foreign to him, too, and he thought mayhap he had not said them aright.

Ere I can turn and address him, it seems the councilors of Imladris are learned in much beyond their bounds, including the languages of lands of the far south, and I need not speak. For he lays an arm across the lord's breast prohibiting his following us, and says, "_The lady and her child are here under Lord Elrond's protection, Lord Boromir,_" his voice firm.

"_Ammë,_" Elenir says, turning her face to me from where she had been examining the lord with as much curiosity as he did us. "_What does he say?_"

At this, the lord blinks at her small face peering at him o'er my shoulder.

"_Forgive me,_" he says and bows to his host as Tithiniel pulls me close.

She does not urge me faster, but her arm is warm about me and her hip bumps against mine with the weight of the basket she carries as we walk. And when we reach the head of the path into the wooded garth where we were to meet my lord, she takes her leave but did not herself go. Instead, she stood with her back to us beneath the limbs of a tall, golden-leafed beech, her hands clasped afore her, watching the lord of Gondor until he had passed o'er path and under bridge until he could no longer be seen.

But, still, it did not prevent my hearing his response. For as he, himself, was ushered further down the path he said, "_I beg thy pardon, Lord Erestor. I had not meant to give offense. I had not thought Lord Elrond would treat with the folk of Umbar. Forgive me. I succumbed to my surprise and was uncouth._"

~oOo~

Her unease forgotten, Elenir leaps along gamely afore me, her high spirits returned with her strength. She points her little finger at the berries and bright leaves and leaps after them until her fists are full of them. As with her brother, I plant the seeds of regard for a father who must oft be absent, and she and I have agreed to bring the small pretties of the forest as a gift to my lord. Ever and anon she runs to me, clinging to my skirt and lifting her glowing face. She thrusts her arm aloft, insisting I see and approve of her discoveries. Soon I carry them as well as the basket that swings heavily from the crook of my arm.

His message said the way was short, but I fear he measured it with his long, ranging strides and not with those of his daughter's small legs. So it was with relief I see him rise from the trunk of a great fallen tree. Gone were the shirt of mail and the long heavy cloak. In their place were the dark greens of a silk and velvet that fit him well. He greets us, and, at his voice, Elenir squeals and runs to him. Smiling, he swings her into his arms only to have her wriggle from his embrace. She lands upon the ground already running and reaches up wide-spread fingers for the leaves and berries she had picked ere returning to her father.

"_Atto!_" she cries and bounces upon her rounded legs, lifting her arms to him, but, instead, my lord lowers himself to her height, sitting upon his heels.

Their dark heads incline together as they speak, and it strikes me how like she grows to him. I do not doubt but she tells him the long tale of the walk through the woods of Rivendell, though the words slide together unintelligibly. He listens, his eyes fixed on her and his hand stroking her curls. Her face is solemn as she offers the posy of woodland colors. It is sticky and half-limp, but, still, he receives it with all the gravity reserved for accepting offerings from princes from faraway lands. But when he bows his head and presses a kiss onto her hand, Elenir giggles and throws her arms about his neck, all pretense at courtliness abandoned. His face is bright with laughter as he draws her against him and sits upon the fallen log.

I am smiling. Who would not? I have seen the grim Chieftain of Rangers, the weary Lord of the Dúnedain, and, now, here in the place of his fostering, the shining elven prince, but 'tis the loving father that most captures my heart and forces it to ache.

"It is said that Master Elrond is wise," say I as I go to them.

"You have reason to question it?" My lord settles his daughter upon his lap. She is content, for the moment, to lean her head upon his breast.

"Nay!" I say, sitting next to them. The tree has lain long upon the forest floor, its wood shredding beneath cushions of green and gray moss. "Indeed, his words come true e'en now."

My lord is puzzled, but he remains silent and his eyes twinkle with mirth, for he knows well enough I enjoy the spinning of my tale. Had I known it, his thoughts would have told me of his amusement at the likeness between his daughter and her mother.

"Did he not foretell the falling of your heart to this little one, my lord?" I nod to my daughter where she now sings fragments of songs for her father, mixing words of elven tales of great glory in Aman with those of the simple loves of Arda.

Fond is his face when he turns his gaze to her. At his scrutiny, she grows silent, a sudden shyness falling upon her, and she presses her face to his breast where he gathers her to him and squeezes her tight.

"I believe I was doomed from the first, lady," he says and presses a kiss into her curls. "It does my heart good to see her so well."

Indeed it is so, though I can hear the echoes of grief in his words, for it is one that is ever present in my heart as well. But it does not bear the saying and I turn away and busy myself with pulling the cloth from the basket. I spread it at our feet, and my lord picks up the thread of the song his daughter had begun and sings it now to her. His soft voice brings the prick of tears to my eyes. I know not the tale of which he sings, but it is full of the yearning of long separation.

_'Shall we meet not in Aman_,' he sings in the elven tongue, '_nor in glades of bright mallorn_' and I wonder at the path his thoughts have wandered as he waited beneath the golden crowns of the tall beeches.

Elenir, untutored in the ways of a polite audience, looks down at his hand as he holds her gift and plucks berries from their stems. His voice drifts above me as I pull our meal of pies of cold salmon poached in wine formed in the shape of fish, fine-grained bread, a strong-smelling cheese, apples, and bundles of cress from the river from the basket. For the quietness of my child, I know that my daughter has her ears fixed upon his voice as he sings.

"Come, my lord," I say when all is ready, and he has finished his song.

He kisses his daughter's brow and drops her to the cloth. When he sits beside her, she pulls an apple from the basket and holds it out to him, begging him to prepare it for her. There he cuts the fruit into fine wedges for his daughter's fingers. She sits snugged into his side as she munches, and he cuts first one slice for her and then another for himself.

The brook babbles brightly in its bed and the birds wing overhead. The sweet scent of apple mixes with that of the tree's decay as we lean our backs against its bole. I pour the light wine and its bite mingles with the smells of the forest and our humble feast. I think I would forego all of the high dinners of the Master of this house should I dine with my lord and daughter in such peaceful simplicity. It seems my lord would not disagree. Lines of care that had lain engraved grimly upon his face these past few months seem to ease.

"I hope you did not wait long." I hold out my hand for his knife. He has finished slicing the apple and offers me its handle.

"No matter. The time passed pleasantly enough." He sips of his wine. "I was remembering," he says, and I think my lord plays his wife's game, teasing his audience into requesting the story.

I am cutting the bread I brought and do not answer. The crust is thick and hard from its baking, demanding my attention, but the risen bread inside is soft and separates tenderly beneath the knife I wield. 'Tis still warm and smells of the kitchens from which we begged it.

"Will you not ask?"

"My lord," I say and, slicing into the cheese, hand the two to him, "these woods are fair, but I cannot think any memory of this place would be one that would bring me joy."

He looks long upon me, his keen eyes measuring my meaning as I lay a bit of cheese in my daughter's eager grasp. She eats well, which, though she may smear apple and cheese upon her cheek and is in great danger of ruining her father's silks, is a great reassurance to her mother. When my lord looks away, it is to gaze upon the dappled light sifting through the forest canopy.

"I do have memories of this place, and aye, lady, they are fair. Well do I remember them," says he, his voice soft nigh to the point of sorrow. Then his eyes return to mine, his look somber. "But I remember, too, another stream, though deeper and more swiftly flowing, and you, with your skirts about your knees, wading through the water with your arms full of reeds."

I cannot meet his glance, for I know I am blushing, growing hot not with the pleasant embarrassment of remembrance, but with the fierce beating of my heart. I wish he would not say such things here in this place where his face falls when touched by the burning gaze of the Lady of Rivendell and he takes great care to avoid us being seen together. I cannot speak nor move, caught as I am between the hammer of his love for another and the anvil of his vows to me.

I know not what I would have said in reply, for, at that moment, our daughter grasps her father's sleeve to pull herself to her feet. She has finished her meal and part of my lord's, biting into the cheese and bread he abandoned.

"_Mamil!_" she calls, and my lord releases me from his gaze to steady his daughter upon her feet.

He guides her on the treacherous path o'er cups of wine and wheel of cheese and I take her from him. I do not know what impulse set her to breaking our confidence, but I could not be more grateful. Sure it is that he meant to reassure me of his faithfulness, but it is one thing to hold the belief that I share my husband's heart with another, and quite another to have him tell me so. I do not think I could have spoken had it been required of me.

Ere she reaches my lap, Elenir squats to fill her hands with the berries and bright leaves we gathered on our walk. She plops herself down heavily upon my lap as were I a mattress of straw and not made of living flesh.

"Aye, _lapsinya!_" I say to her delicate frown. "What is it you wish that you throw yourself upon me as were you some little piglet splashing about in a puddle?"

She bursts into bright laughter at the thought. "_Mamil! _ Me not a pig'et! Me _lapsi'ya!_"

"Are you certain of that?" I ask, taking the leaves from her hands, for I know what she wishes. It was a poor _Loëndë_ we celebrated, of a thin and weary cheer, but one she is slow to forget in her young life with so little of good things in it.

"_Atto!_" she cries. "I not pig'et!"

I think my lord takes in the smear of cheese across his daughter's face, for he smiles, and soft laughter comes to his lips.

"I have not oft known your mother to be wrong, little one," he says and, setting down the pie of salmon he had been eating, brushes at the crumbs upon her face.

"No! _Lapsi'ya_," she says, now frowning and seemingly nigh to tears with the quick turning of mood of the very young.

"Aye, you are my Elenir, never fear," I croon, and placing my hands about her waist, push her to standing while I clutch the yellow leaves. "Now, my pet, gather you more of these and I shall weave your crown for you."

Her face brightens instantly, and she leaps up from the blanket on which our meal rests, heedless of what she tramples though my lord may attempt to steady her and guide her swift feet.

My lord rescues the wine skin from where its mouth has tipped precariously low and dribbles its contents upon the cloth and, scraping up a bit of smeared cheese, he flings it far into the undergrowth. He is much occupied in clearing the shambles our child has made of our meal while I begin the exacting task of winding the leaves and berries upon each other. But their stems are long and thin, and it goes quickly.

When he is done and poured more wine into our cups, my lord watches his daughter as she shakes a leaf vigorously and smiles at the face she pulls when she discovers her efforts fail to dislodge the slug that clings there. I think, at one point, he will join her, for he draws his feet to him and seems about to rise, but then he again stretches out his long legs and leans against the old trunk that makes our bench. Mayhap she had merely passed beyond his sight and now reappears, bursting from place to place between the trees, her fists full of brightly colored leaves and the air full of her tuneless humming.

When she returns, my daughter flings the bits of gold at me, laughing when they fall all about my dress and hair.

"Elenir!" I say, my voice grown stern though her father might smile at the sight. "Come, help me pick these up!" And when she flees, giggling, I call after her, "_Wish thee to have thy crown? Then thou wilt do as thou art bid_."

True it is she takes her time in returning, but she joins my lord in retrieving the leaves. When done, she settles to my lap and spins the leaves about by their stems as she chatters, and I must weave them with my arms about my daughter. Natheless, I am soon done and place the circlet about her head, the leaves fluttering as she rises.

My lord leans his head upon his hand and seems content to watch our daughter twirl about. The weaving slips and, retrieving it from the ground, she must clap a hand tight to her head to keep it there. From the rustling coming from about us, she dances about as were she an elfling new to the world unstained. I find myself lost in memory, looking as I am upon her father. Ah, but his joy springs from an untiring font deep within, despite all the long pity and grief of his life. Even now it shines from his face, though as through a veil of weariness. This very man who takes delight in the gamboling about of a small child once tread the dread flowers of the Morgul Vale and could speak of greater horrors still, had he the mind. Ah, but they are etched upon the grim lines of his face, and yet his mirth lights him from within.

When she tires of her play and the effort she must put forth to keep the leaves upon her head, my lord calls to her.

"Here, _lapsinya_, I shall take it," says he when it seems she would fling it upon the forest floor.

I think she will place it in his outstretched hand, but when she nears, she steps neatly around his reach and plops the crown upon his head. Laughing, she trips backward to avoid his grasp, for he growls teasingly and calls her name. For all that she falls hard upon her buttocks, his daughter laughs the more brightly and scrambles away.

"_Pretty, pretty!_" her voice sings as she skips about, paying no heed to her father and on to her next game. "_Pretty leaf! Pretty tree! Pretty Atto! Pretty Mamil! Pretty bird! Pretty dirt!_" Here she halts and giggles breathlessly, nigh collapsing to the ground for the suddenness of her merriment ere resuming her song and the steps of her dance.

My lord shakes his head, a soft sound of wry amusement rising from him. He turns away and takes up his cup, leaving the circlet of leaves and berries upon his head as were he humoring his daughter.

"I think I know just which of Master Elrond's folk have had the tutoring of our daughter, lady," he says.

Indeed our daughter has merry playmates among the Silvan folk of Imladris, and, of late, has grown to protest the need for sleep. For she would much rather stay awake under the stars with them.

"Aye, my lord," say I. "And grows more as one of the Eldar every day."

He makes no answer but raises his brow briefly as he searches amongst our things. The crown of gold and red shines brightly against his dark hair.

"How long are you here, my lord?"

"Not long," says he and settles upon the cheese, drawing his knife so he might prepare himself more to eat. "The Council has decided, lady, and there is much to be prepared."

"Have you taken enough rest, my lord?"

"Aye, be easy, lady," he says and sends a swift smile my way. "The greatest danger will come only later. I am to go south, lady, to Gondor, should I have the chance."

"My lord?" So startled am I, I can think of naught to say.

I stare at him as he works at the cheese, cutting thin slices as had he not just spoken of the return of the House of Elendil to the South Kingdom. For he cannot go under another guise, much as he had afore, now the son of the Steward has chanced upon him here.

"I am called there, lady," he says, his voice firm. He takes up a slice to eat it.

"And the lord, what has he to say of the matter? Will the House of Hurin now welcome the return of Elendil's heir?" The words burst from me without much thought, but my lord need not ask of whom I speak.

"Aye, well, he will welcome the return of Elendil's sword, it seems."

"Elendil's sword!" A laugh bursts from me. "For all its glory, my lord, it will do you and the lords of Gondor little good in beating back the hosts of the Nameless One. Does he not know it was broken when Elendil fell?"

"He knows it," says he. "But it shall be forged anew ere I go, lady."

I stare at him, dumfounded. The golden crown rests lightly upon his head with its jewels of red berries. His face is bright beneath it as he wipes at his fingers and smiles at his daughter's capering, now I have fallen silent. But it is as had a veil fallen between us. I could not be more stunned had my lord raised a hand in anger and slapped me. The warmth of his smiles seems a distant thing.

"You will attempt this thing, then?" I ask, my voice a mere whisper, and his face turns to me of a sudden.

I do not wait for him to answer, for I know now he will. No matter should my lord fail, or should he prevail, all things I know are to be unmade and I must wonder at all I had thought I had known of him.

And I think my lord knows my thoughts. No doubt they play across my face, for he has fallen silent and considers me with a solemn pity. Mayhap, the will of the Council had opened this road afore his feet and he had hoped to speak of it later when behind closed doors. But it seems he had failed to account for his wife's familiarity with his desires and her ability to see the path to which they tend.

When next he moves, it is to pluck the crown from his head, untangling it gently from his hair. His fingers graze upon my cheek after he has placed the band of leaves upon my head, tucking it with care between the braids that encircle my head so that the stems do not scratch at my scalp.

"_Wilt thou give thought to thy people?_" I ask, and, with his grave look, my lord thumbs away the furrow between my brows.

"As e'er I have, so I do now, _híril nín_."

~oOo~


	65. Chapter 64

~ Chapter 64 ~

"_Arvedui was indeed the last king, as his name signifies. It is said that this name was given to him at his birth by Malbeth the Seer, who said to his father: "Arvedui you shall call him, for he will be the last in Arthedain. Though a choice will come to the Dúnedain, and if they take the one that seems less hopeful, then your son will change his name and become king of a great realm. If not, then much sorrow and many lives of men shall pass, until the Dúnedain arise and are united again."_

Appendix A: Annals of the Kings and Rulers

~oOo~

My lord left again ere I knew it, and, I confess it, I was in an ill-temper for it. For my lord and husband had left with no farewell and no chance to speak further of his plans. My daughter awoke one night some time after, fearful and crying for her father and I promised to find him upon the rising of the sun. But I was foresworn without knowing it. Oh, I doubt not the urgency of his leaving, but bitterly I resented learning of it from one who was a stranger to me. As always, of late, it was from Tithiniel I learned of his errand. Far upon the Wild were the scouts sent from Imladris. Even the sons of Elrond the Halfelven had gone, and they with my lord. Beneath the cover of night had they slipped away.

I think my daughter must have caught my mood, for little pleases her. Today seems the worst of all, and I fear greatly she is yet unrecovered from her illness. She refused her nap, though reluctant to settle upon aught else, flinging even her beloved poppet across the room when it was offered to her. All day she wept at the denial of her simplest wishes as sure it was her heart would break. And, upon this even, when we are called to the Great Hall, she will neither sit on her own upon the cushions or upon my lap, but wishes only to crawl about upon the floor beneath the tables and run betwixt the benches. Here we have gathered below the Master of Rivendell and his daughter to sup with the Mighty of his House, and my child kicks at the table, rattling the silver dishes and cups.

"Hist, Elenir," I whisper, my voice grown fierce, but she throws herself back against me.

"_No, Mamil! No!_" she cries, her voice high-pitched and irksome, and I struggle to contain her flailing limbs, so she does not knock our meal and my neighbor's upon the floor. I am nigh to bursting into tears myself.

"_Ai, lapsinya,_" I sigh, and lift her into my arms and stand.

Hands reach to steady me as I step o'er the bench, for she is heavy and far stronger than her small limbs would seem to make her. Down upon the end of the table I see Tithiniel rise, her fair face anxious as she looks to the head of the table where the Lady sits and watches us. I shall take my daughter to our chambers, for, aye, she is weary and out of sorts. She will soon wear herself out with her crying and then, I hope, rest as she needs. We will not dine with the great of the Free Peoples tonight.

She kicks and screams in protest as I settle her in my arms and walk from the hall, looking neither left nor right. She peers o'er my shoulder and stretches out her arms, pleading in her incoherent cries to be led back to the hall. But, soon, I think, my daughter finds her cries have little effect, for neither do we return to the hall nor do I set her down. She then comes to bury her face in my loose curls, whimpering, her tears making a mess of the fine fabric of my dress.

"I be good! _Mamil_, no," comes the muted wail atimes.

"_Aye, little one_," I say. Were I not full grown and the Lady of the Dúnedain I know I might cry out thusly, as well. For I think, now, she is quite well but misses her father terribly, as does her mother.

I must have counted nigh to a hundred guests in passing ere I climb the weary steps to my lord's mother's rooms. There the fire has burned low and the lamps are unlit. When I sit upon the couch where we have brought it indoors, my daughter snuffles and resists my laying her down. And so we sit, she clinging to me with her small hands and me rubbing slow circles upon her back. The wind rises beyond the shutters to the sound of the ever-present roar of water, and the irons tick as the coals settle in the covered hearth. To their music Elenir's fingers soon loose their grip and fall. Though she sleeps, I feel no need to lay her upon the couch. I think I could stay thus for all the Ages of the world.

It is then I hear the soft knocking upon the door. Swiftly, but with as gentle hands as I can manage, I lay my daughter down, pulling off her shoes and laying a blanket o'er all. She stirs a little, but when, in a dash across the room, I find her poppet and place it in her arms, she murmurs in her sleep, and then curls upon her side and falls still.

When I open the door, I stand as were I frozen by the shock of cold water, for I find not the fine features of Tithiniel there, but the cragged lines, thorny brows, and twinkling eyes of the wizard.

"Oh! Nienna's tears! Mithrandir, you should not have," I scold softly.

I close the door behind me on my daughter, for the even is mild and the sun sets in a mist upon the gold and red leaves of fall. Here upon the terrace we may sit and be comfortable for a little longer ere the night's chill settles upon us.

"She sleeps, I take it, then," he says, and I nod. "Ah, good. She seemed in much need of rest. You, lady, on the other hand, seem in much need of food."

Here I see he has set a laden tray upon the table and he motions to it, stepping to a chair nearby. "And mayhap of company, as well."

"I would welcome your company at any time, Lord Mithrandir," say I, following him. "And I thank you for your kindness, but would you not rather sup in the Great Hall?"

"Humph," say he, and waves away the notion ere resting his hands upon his knees and lowering himself to the chair. "I have eaten and the hall is soon to empty. I shall have my fill of them ere too long, lady."

There he sighs and leans back. I come to a bench set near him.

"I am afraid you may find me poor company in their stead."

He grunts lightly. "Are not we all, at one time or another?"

"Will you not have the chance to rest from your labors, Lord Mithrandir?" I ask, for the wizard has fallen into a leaden silence from which I have little gaiety to distract him.

"Eh, now?" His gaze rises from some distant point. "Ah! Some little, mayhap. Our greatest efforts are yet afore us, lady, and we must gather our strength for them." At the thought, his face takes on an unyielding cast and his eyes gleam darkly beneath his brow.

I find, of a sudden, I fear for my lord. For well I know whatever plans occupy the wizard's mind, he is sure to figure prominently in them.

"Then I wish you what comfort you may take from your time here, Gandalf."

At this, his keen eyes come upon me and there he takes my measure, for, now I hear it, my voice was flat and no doubt did little to provide comfort. I have turned away from him, and under the guise of pulling the tray toward me, will not look at him.

"Aye, I sent your husband yet again into danger and he would leave it for no other.

"Indeed," the wizard goes on, leaning again to the back of the chair, "there is none better to do it. We must send those as are willing, no matter what perilous paths must be tread."

I pluck the bread from where it sits upon the tray. I do not argue the point, for it is of no use.

Here his voice grows softer and more weary. "It requires but the heart to set them upon it."

I know not what troubles him and am unsure what I would have to say that might lighten his mood even should I know more of it.

"And you, lady, do you not take comfort while you may?"

At this I sigh at the boldness of the Mighty. They make their plans and leave those who love them to follow in their wake, and then plead us to release them from seeing the pain of the buffeting we suffer because of it.

"Have I need of your pity, Gandalf?" I toss the crust of bread I had been tearing apart on the tray, whereupon his eyes come swiftly upon me, piercing me with their light.

"I would have thought gardeners to be the more steadfast for the patience growing things require of them."

At this I laugh, though with some bitterness. "_Ai_, Gandalf! My gardens," I say, sighing. "I fear I shall ne'er have the need for patience with them. They are much diminished, and I am afraid they shall ne'er bear fruit again."

"So it shall be with many things," he says. "The world does not reward all our efforts, lady, but that does not mean all our labors are complete."

I would the wizard's words were not so pointed in their delivery. My vexation must have played upon my face, for he speaks further.

"Even during times of drought and poor harvest, is it not then your gardens are most in need of your best efforts? Why then do you sit idle?"

Stung, my back stiffens. "Mayhap you think I have neglected them of my choice. Mayhap it is of my lord you should demand your answers, for it is he who has removed the gardener from her soil. Aye, indeed it requires much labor, but I am not there to put my back to it."

"Nay, lady," he says. "A gardener tills the ground on which he is set and chooses those growing things that will take to it accordingly."

"This ground on which I am set is not my own to shape according to my designs, Master Gandalf. A gardener you call me! Say rather a weed, for I have been plucked from my native soil."

"And you think you buffeted by the winds of ill fortune and unable to do aught but bend to them?"

"Am I not?"

The sound he makes is sharp with displeasure. "Lady, it does you no good to keep your eyes fixed upon a past which is no more!"

Ah, but I bite my tongue, for should I let it loose it would cut sharply. Aye, yes, the past is gone, and I need little reminder of this. And then, it seems, I lose the battle.

"What would you have me do? Did you not just praise my steadfastness, Gandalf? Or shall I believe myself mistaken in that?"

"Aye! Steadfastness! Not blind stubbornness," he says, insistent over the ill-humor that must show from my face. "No tendency is a good in itself, but for what it serves. Should you think honor a good thing? Courage? Should you bind yourself by strongly-held belief when you hear the cries of suffering about you? Is that steadfastness?

"Aye," he goes on and settles back into his seat. "What came afore is now gone, as many things change upon this ground we tread. Mourn them as you should but abandon not your work. The path does not end simply because the land about it changes."

I rub at my brow and hope to loosen the knot that forms there. The wizard allows me but a moment ere he speaks again, and then in a voice at the most weary and vexed I have yet heard from him.

"Sometimes, my dear Nienelen, that which is hardest to give is what is most required of us."

At that, I close my eyes and press my hands to my face, and wonder. This task they set themselves, my lord and his friends, shall they have the strength to complete it? And should they succeed, shall it leave aught left to them?

Mayhap the manner of my lord's leaving is a small thing, not worth the thought I have spent on it.

I break into laughter and drop my hands.

"I know not why I enjoy your company, Gandalf, why I look forward to your visits so. In truth, I should quail in fear and hide when your shadow so much as crosses my path."

"My counsel is not for those who would despair, Nienelen."

"Nor for the faint of heart, it seems."

He makes a small sound, and I think it not in disagreement. "But you, dear lady," he says, "have yet to be one of either of them. Is that not true?"

I know not, for it seems my heart would shrink upon itself for having no walls behind which to hide.

The wood of the chair creaks faintly with the wizard's movement. He leans forward and fixes me with his keen gaze. "Do you not provide shelter to tender roots in the deepest of winters? When the sun darkens, do you not gather the seeds of what you hold most dear and make plans for the coming season? Will you sit and bemoan your fate until the frost has alighted upon them and burned away their promise for the next spring? Hmm?"

"What is it I am to do, Gandalf?" It is as had I a glimpse of a great beast running along the far bank of a dark river, shrouded in the cold mist that arises from it. I feel it in the stab of hunger in an empty belly and the ache of the heart upon the barrows. I hear it in words spoken at me as should I understand them. I see it in the glow of sunlight upon golden leaves of beech against a fall of dark hair.

I know what it is in my heart, but my thoughts cannot yet name it.

"That is not for me to say, lady," says he, his eyes stern. "In truth, I know not, but it is not to sit idly by. That is most unlike you."

With a long sigh, he rises from the chair and comes to sit next to me on the bench I had chosen, for, sure it is, I have fixed him with a most pathetic look. I am more lost than when I had not yet spoken to him.

"Aye, there are times of rest on any journey, and you should take what healing you can from them. But you, Nienelen, daughter of the Defiant of Harad who did not break beneath the _Butcher of Umbar_ and of the Faithful of Númenor whose spines did not bend, find little comfort in idleness." His voice has softened, and his look is now more one of pity. My eyes burn. "My heart tells me you have a part yet to play, dear child, but it is your heart you must search. I had not known you to lack the courage."

"Nay, Gandalf, more the understanding, I daresay." I wipe at my eyes with my sleeve.

Ah, my poor dress. More fine than aught I had worn yet, so high was the occasion, and between my daughter and I, not even the skill of the elves, I deem, shall get it clean. I take his hand from where he leans it against the bench and press it in mine. His fingers are thick and calloused, and strong. He smiles upon me and I see, yet again, those eyes twinkling with light.

"Come now," says he, squeezing my fingers. "Now is not the time for weeping."

"Is it the time for laughing, then, Gandalf?" I ask and shake my head at his smile.

"Nay, lady, 'tis time for eating," he says briskly, and I laugh. "You would do well to learn this lesson from the Halflings. They would not have let their food lie idle and grow cold after a wizard had carried it across half the length of Imladris for them. Indeed not."

"Come, come," he says and rises from the bench, pulling me gently after. "The night draws upon us and I would have a fire by which to keep my feet warm. Come join me, at the very least, and I shall have a pipe and you shall have your meal. Soon, you and I must face the trials set afore us, and we shall draw what strength we can from each thing."

He takes up the tray and I follow close by.

"Aye, Mithrandir," I say, for who am I to question a wizard of his years and wisdom.

~oOo~


	66. Chapter 65

~ Chapter 65 ~

"_For the high men of Gondor already looked askance at the Northmen among them; and it was a thing unheard of before that the heir of the crown, or any son of the King, should wed one of lesser and alien race. There was already rebellion in the southern provinces when King Valacar grew old. His queen had been a fair and noble lady, but short-lived according to the fate of lesser Men, and the Dúnedain feared that her descendants would prove the same and fall from the majesty of the Kings of Men. Also they were unwilling to accept as lord her son, who though he was now called Eldacar, had been born in an alien country and was named in his youth Vinitharya, a name of his mother's people._

_But Eldacar did not prove easy to thrust from his heritage. To the lineage of Gondor he added the fearless spirit of the Northmen. He was handsome and valiant, and showed no sign of ageing more swiftly than his father. When the confederates led by descendants of the kings rose against him, he opposed them to the end of his strength."_

Appendix A: Annals of the Kings and Rulers

"_But the stewards were wiser and more fortunate. Wiser, for they recruited the strength of our people from the sturdy folk of the sea-coast, and from the hardy mountaineers of Ered Nimrais. And they made a truce with the proud peoples of the North, who often had assailed us, men of fierce valour, but our kin from afar off, unlike the wild Easterlings or the cruel Haradrim… For so we reckon Men in our lore, calling them the High, or Men of the West, which were Númenóreans; and the Middle Peoples, Men of the Twilight, such as are the Rohirrim and their kin that dwell still far in the North; and the Wild, the Men of Darkness."_

_Faramir, ROTK: The Window on the West_

~oOo~

_Their farewells had been said in the great hall by the fire, and they were only waiting now for Gandalf, who had not yet come out of the house. A gleam of firelight came from the open doors, and soft lights were glowing in many windows. Bilbo huddled in a cloak stood silent on the doorstep beside Frodo. Aragorn sat with his head bowed to his knees; only Elrond knew fully what this hour meant to him. _

FOTR: The Ring Goes South

Here in this place in which the folk of the Eldar race walk out of legend and share the same paths as I, sit at the same table, and are warmed by the same fire, I have had much time to think.

I sit upon the terrace that abuts my lord's mother's rooms. Here, once, I slept under boughs of white and pink blossoms. They live as naught but shades of memory now. For thin is the blue of the winter sky above bare and black branches and the wind scatters the leaves into dancing about where I sit, my hands bound within my sleeves and cloak against the chill. Fire shudders and snaps in the brazier at my back where I sit perched upon a stranger's chair. Its flames do little to relieve the cold, for the sun makes its way swiftly to the tips of the mountains and soon the mist that floats above the River Bruinen shall flood o'er the valley and make ghosts of colonnades and trees and the folk walking amongst them. Yet, loath am I to return indoors where my daughter sleeps.

For I await my husband.

_Ai!_ Husband.

No longer does the word taste oddly upon the tongue. 'Tis one I know now with much finer intimacy, both the bitter and the sweet.

Here, while my lord scouted out the wastes for signs of The Nine, I have had much time to reflect on the rise and fall of kingdoms and the fortunes of kings, their kith, and their kin. No Aldarion, Mariner King of Númenor, is he; stubborn and prideful, weighing the need of land against those of the heart and finding his wife's wanting. And no Erendis am I, his queen grown bitter and withdrawn for his neglect when he chooses to pursue the weary defense against the Nameless One, rather than remain caught within the bounds of my life.

No. For I have a fortress to rebuild. And as with all such endeavors, I must begin by ensuring the foundation is strong and will endure the battering winds of misfortune, and the most wretched tendencies of Man. My lord goes south and soon.

Ah, but the path he shall tread is a treacherous one.

I catch sight of him, striding swiftly along the halls and paths. His shadow passes afore softly lit windows and open doors. It could be no other. They make their farewells in the Great Hall now, and soon Master Elrond and those of his household who wish shall gather outside its doors to see them away.

My lord comes near, so that I see his face pale against the gathering dusk. Grim is his look, but resolute. He pauses mid-step when he sees me waiting here, but then strides on, making his way to me. He wears the dark colors of his winter gear, and I marvel how he came upon the long, fur-lined vest I fashioned so long ago. I know all of what he carries, but for his sword. I have seen it ere now in glimpses clouded by blood and fear and screaming, but not with my waking eyes.

I rise when his feet come upon the short flight of steps to the terrace. Quickly he climbs them and then is afore me, but I say naught. I think he must read my thoughts upon my face, for neither does he speak. His look is determined, but he wears his conviction wearily and beneath, no doubt, seeks to quell voices that speak more of apprehension than assurance. For we are now come to it, and there is no turning aside.

"She is inside," say I at length, and when he goes, sink to my seat. It seems I have no bones within my limbs, for they refuse to hold me aloft.

Long are the moments he spends indoors. I doubt not he watches his daughter's slumber, not daring to wake her to press a farewell upon her she would not comprehend. It would only distress her. There he must take care to steal what he can of the sight of her face and her movements in her sleep, and draw them deep to his heart. For 'tis greatly uncertain should he e'er have more of her. I cannot begrudge him the time he has left.

When he has returned, in silence, he closes the door upon the warmth and glow of the hearth. For the solemn look in the gaze that is turned upon me, I throw the folds of my cloak off my hand and offer it to him.

He takes it, coming to stand beside me, and speaks.

_"I have neglected thee."_

I know not what to say. Well I know the urgency of the councils that have filled my lord's time in these few days of his return. And I had not had it in me to force his hand.

"Do you recall your promised gift to me at our last farewell?" asks he.

"I do."

"And how fare you in your attempts, lady?"

"Not well," say I, for, indeed, my heart has found little to ease it here.

"I am sorry to hear it." He surveys me with his kind pity.

"Mayhap you shall allow me some little time more ere insisting the debt be paid."

"I would have you take whatever time you need, so long as you do not lose heart and abandon the attempt."

He lifts his gaze to look upon the doors that open and spill light into a distant courtyard. At the sight, somewhat heavy settles upon his shoulders.

Indeed, he must go.

"When my daughter awakes," he says and withdraws his hand, "will you give her this?" From his fingers dangles a fine silver chain. Affixed upon the end is a green gem that catches the last of the sunlight and sparkles as it turns about. "And tell her the tale of how her father found this stone upon the Last Bridge, and thus had hope, in an hour of great need, he need not face peril unaided."

He slips the stone into my hand, where it is warm from when he carried it. There he curls my fingers about it and, with his intent gaze, extracts my promise to do as he bids. He need have no doubt, for my heart breaks for my daughter who is sure to have no more of her father than a stone to string about her neck.

"_Fare thee well. I go to search for light beyond the Shadow_," he says softly and bows o'er my hand. "Remember me to my daughter."

I take back the hand he releases, slipping the stone into my sleeve, there to keep it safe until I can take it inside.

His fingers come to cup my cheek in a brief caress, and I must take a great breath to speak o'er the beating of my heart. For the time has come, else he shall turn and stride swiftly to the stairs that shall take him away, and I will have lost my chance.

"Have you grown so high? Will you not take gift in farewell from me?"

"Never, lady," he says, his face solemn. "I would take whatever gift you would think to give, for I know its worth as no other."

"Then come," I say, raising my hands for his.

His eyes wonder, for though my voice is gentle, I cannot bring myself to smile upon him and the hands I offer shake. Even so, he lays his hands in mine, and, of his own will, comes to kneel afore me and bends his head o'er my knee.

It is not the dark gloss of his hair hanging as a curtain o'er his face I see. Nay, in its place I see the black of the crow's wings as they swarm above a field writhing in violent struggle and hear the screaming of men and beasts. _Ai!_ By what grace of the Valar shall he survive such a day?

Even now, though it is I who clasp his hands, the strength of his grasp as he attempts vainly to warm flesh he finds too cold for his liking comes nigh to breaking my resolve. Yet I must do this thing.

"Aragorn, Arathorn's son," I say, my voice a mere whisper. Though I make the attempt, I cannot bring it to full force.

His fingers still as I tighten my grip.

"Lord of the Dúnedain, this is my gift in farewell to you: I allow you the right to claim the _seidiad_, and beg you release me from the vows that bind me to you."

I may yet have his hands, but his head has risen and his eyes flash fire. Had I not held tight, he would have pulled away and I know not what he would have done next. His voice is cold when he speaks.

"You think to offer this thing to me as a gift? I refuse it! How is it the woman I married is so cruel she would make her children fatherless, cast her husband aside when he has need of her constancy the most?"

"Do not mistake me!" I have found my voice, and it is strong. "_Thy daughter and thy son are thine own and will ever be past even the Circles of the World! For the rest, do not speak to me of constancy. From thine own lips have I known of the love thou hast for another since the first day I was made thy wife, yet still have I borne thy touch, thy children, and the pain of thy commands for the love I bear for thee!_"

Had I, at one time, thought I might hear words of love softly spoken in return should I confess them, I do not think so now. For his features tighten with anger.

"Can you not see it?" I ask. "Your destiny draws near. Should you renew the line of Kings, you must have an heir, and I can give you none."

"Nay! I have an heir, lady," says he firmly and shakes his head. "You distress yourself without necessity. You forget your child."

"Would you, then, bring strife to Gondor where the last of the kings of the North, in his wisdom, did not?"

"Lady, the world unfolds as it must. It is not on us to order all things to the concerns of Men. Had the fates of this world given me a daughter and no other, then it is as it should be," he says with a steely finality.

I laugh, so caught in surprise am I, and he draws his hands from mine as they loosen. He makes to rise from his knees, as had he had enough and only wishes now to bring our time together to a close.

But we are not finished! My hand darts to his wrist to restrain him and he halts, though, by the set of his jaw, he is clearly unwilling to hear aught else of what I might have to say.

"Did you not order things according to the concerns of Men when I was chosen to be your wife?" I demand. "Is this not what you did, you whose heart was most decidedly fixed upon another since you were made a man? What greater sign of your destiny have you been given by the fates of this world than the love of one of the highest houses of our time returned."

At this, he shakes his head, his displeasure at the reminder writ large upon his face. "Lady, I had not known you so cruel as to taunt me with what_ I have sacrificed for thee and the suffering it forced upon one who has done naught but attempted to give thee comfort_. What does it matter? That path is closed. You cannot set me back upon it. What conditions do you think were laid upon us to tolerate our stay here?"

"_Hearken to me!_" I say, interrupting him, but he goes on, speaking over me.

"_How do I make this clear to thee?_ She has made her wishes very plain. She will not see me! I am disavowed!"

"I know you would not wish me pain, nor abandon me to the life your own mother lived. But, still, no matter should it be the Lady of Rivendell or another, you must do this."

"And should I insist," he demands, "command you come to me, would still you harden your heart against me? Must you then force me to send men to drag you from your lonely tower in the North?"

"Oh, no," say I, laughing sharply. "Have you but to send for me, I shall come. I shall outfit myself in all the dignity deserving of your queen. And there I shall abase myself amidst the splendor of the King Returned and cast my body at your feet. Even there shall I plead my cause for all of your court to hear and you shall bear the shame of it. I shall not stand by your side, nor keep your house, nor sleep in your bed. But should you wish it of me, oh aye, I shall come."

His face hardens at this. "And should I refuse you the chance of doing such a thing? What then?"

"Oh, my husband, do not forget. You do not yet hold the Sceptre of Annúminas nor is there guarantee the folk of Arnor shall welcome you to your throne there. You shall require their goodwill to do it, which you have frayed to a thread when you ordered your men to protect the Shire over them. You need my aid to regain it. But should you confine my acts in any way, then you should take care the gilded cage you design for me has no means by which I may exit this mortal world. For I will take whatever methods are to hand to leave it, and you will have the burden of explaining it to my kin. _From my deathbed shall I strike at thee and turn thy folk of the North against thee!_"

At this, he lets loose a short, choked sound and a spasm twists his features. "_Alas, lady, what madness has its hold upon thee?"_

"Know this," I go on. "_Until thou hast gotten a male heir by another woman, I shall never allow my daughter to set foot in the lands of Gondor!_ There are those amongst our folk willing to take her into hiding in the hills of my mother's kin. Slow will the clans be to surrender one of their children to such a fate as would befall her should you claim her as heir. There, should you e'er wish to see her again, you will be forced to paint the hills in their blood. The _Defiant of Harad_ and their children have stood firm against worse tyrants than you would have to make yourself in any attempt to secure her, and would do so again."

"_What manner of man dost thou believe me to be,"_ he shouts, _"that would not have put great thought into preparing for our daughter's protection or would even consider ordering such an attack upon my own people?_"

"_You will not be there when it comes, and neither will I." _ I grab him about his wrists ere he can pull away. By the _Light of Aman_, he will listen to me! _"They will wait until you are gone and she is at her weakest, and then they shall strike. Should the high men of Gondor have taken great offense to being ruled by a son of a woman of Rohan, what shall they shall see when they look upon our daughter? They will see naught but the blood of their enemy of old in the darkness of her skin and the color of her eyes. Aye, there will be those that shall come to cherish her, but it takes just the one, should he have the power, and the rest will turn their back to her for fear of him or be crushed in the attempt to protect her. I refuse to allow it! You must do this!"_

He shakes off my grip, but only to gather my hands in his. My hands are shaking, and he must know it, for so are his, so enraged is he. He brings our hands to his brow and there presses his face to them. With some effort, he closes his eyes and breathes deep, setting aside his fury. It take some time, but, when done, and his shoulders have gentled and face softened, he sits back upon his heels and looks up at me.

When he speaks, his voice is low. In it, I hear clear the aching of his heart that I might think he would abandon my daughter and I to bear the brunt of his choice alone.

"Had I the time, lady, mayhap we could discuss this more, and I could ease your fears. Had I known of them – "

"And yet you found every excuse to avoid your obligations to me since I learned of your plans."

He does not deny it, nor does he plead the necessity of his absences, but presses his lips tight together ere speaking again.

"_Thou art híril nín,"_ says he. "I have not forgotten it."

"You need not explain yourself, my lord."

"Lady, _I beg thee,_" he says and for the pleading upon his face, 'tis clear he hopes I shall hear him out and be comforted. "I would have you be my queen in full, with all its powers, not in name only to appease those who have not yet come to know you and judge you only upon what they see. There is much good we could do, you and I. Much we could heal that has long been broken. Aye, it will take work, and aye, I would not have you remove yourself south nor our daughter assume her throne until all was in readiness. But I have not known you to shirk any burden for its weight or the length of the road to achieve it."

"Had you thought my aid necessary for such endeavors, mayhap you should have informed me of your intent and begged my thoughts on it."

"Aye, lady, and deeply do I regret not having done so," he cries. "I can only plead the weight of other demands on my time of late and the belief that you and I would be of like mind. Aye! Hold me to account for the manner in which this has been revealed to you, but surely it is not so great a thing as the choices we have afore us."

"Ah!" I exclaim. "Do you wish to convince me or yourself of this? For it is not the full truth. I have never afore said you nay, but that is not why you have not spoken to me of this. For never once have you spoken to me of your time in Gondor serving its steward, nor of your journeys after in the lands of my forefathers, even when you knew me hungry for all I could learn of my mother's folk and stymied in my attempts to do so."

He rubs at my knuckles, his gaze flicking from them to my eyes and back. I would say that the disquiet with which he looks upon me was unlike him, had I not sure knowledge of its source.

"That does not mean I have not heard the tales told of it," I say. "But you meant them for other ears, not mine."

Should there have been any heat to my thoughts, they have now cooled. So have his and when I consider him, he accepts my examination but when I next speak, he cannot look upon me.

"Tell me, my lord, how many folk of Umbar did you meet in battle then, when you led the attack upon their city? You thought it a certain thing, the people there would swear allegiance to the Deceiver and wished to prevent it. How many died at your own hand? What thought did you give it then? Did you see the people there as naught but a threat and regret the necessity of taking their lives?"

And now you must return there and meet the folk of Umbar again in battle. But now they are your kin where they were not afore, distant though it may be. And you shall see them with new eyes and wonder had you given proper weight to other paths to preventing their attendance upon the Nameless One other than their deaths. And you must ask yourself why you had deemed their lives not worthy of the effort.

Throughout my speech, his hands would tighten upon me and his breast heaves, as were he fighting for breath. But now, now I think he knows what I shall say next, for he looks away and naught shows upon his face but his eyes glittering in the light of the brazier.

"For how many shall you meet in battle now and look upon them and know, had chance not brought his forefathers north, you look upon the face of your own son?"

It is at this a spasm of pain contorts his face and he turns swiftly to press his face to our clasped hands, as had, only now, his heart broken open.

"I can only think, then, when you traveled more closely among the folk of Harad, you saw what the Mighty of Númenor had wrought there. You have not returned to Gondor since, and, indeed, fled to solace amongst the Galadhrim of Lothlorien.

"I do not know had you another choice, my lord. But the dread that mayhap there had been another way, but you had not considered it because your thoughts were akin to those of your forefathers of Númenor and your kin of the kings of Gondor, who have ever sought rule over Umbar and Harad and homage of their folk, and thought them lesser, it is this you hid within your heart where you could leave it unnamed. And it is this why you have remained silent. You knew you could not lie to me and must confront it. For you cannot partake of the gifts of Númenor, should you also not assume the burden of its ills.

"This is why you have found every excuse to avoid your obligations to me of late. For should you wish to ascend to the throne of Gondor, what must I think of what they have done? And you feared what you might see of yourself reflected back to you in my eyes."

When I have done, my lord releases a long breath from where he is bent to my knees. Sniffing, he presses a kiss to my knuckles ere raising his head.

"I have never wished to give you any reason to think I saw you as lesser, lady," he says, "nor our children any less worthy of every effort or every aspiration, no matter its height."

"I know it." Indeed I do, no matter my lord's fears. And had he only spoken to me of them, I would have told him so.

"A worthy goal, my lord," I go on, "to bring peace among such disparate enemies of old with age upon age of suffering and pain between them, and indeed I shall hold you foresworn should not you do your utmost to attain it. But you may not atone for your regrets upon the back of my daughter. I will not allow it."

He stares at my hands as were he caught there, watching the pull of skin o'er the bones of my hand as his finger play upon it, his shoulders sagging.

"Alas, lady, I cannot say your fears are unfounded," he says, his hands stilling upon me as he searches my face, 'but will you not put your faith in me as you once did?"

_Ai!_ I can only hope, now he has turned to tenderness, he shall soon desist. Oh, how I long to place myself in his hands as I have afore. I trust he would buoy me up and do his utmost for our child, and my heart aches for it. For it is not enough.

When I shake my head, he goes on with a heaviness to his voice I have not heard afore.

"I know I have asked much of you and you have suffered for it." Here he halts, stopping and considering me. "Has the burden grown too much, then, and, at the last, cost me your love?"

At this, my voice has again been reduced to a thing of thin, trembling air. "_Nay, even now, though I ask this, I yearn for thee and love thee still. But I want peace more and there are things I refuse to sacrifice. Our people have the greater claim. What I have of hope, I cannot keep for myself but must give to the Dúnedain."_

With a flash of a startled and pained look upon his face, it seems I have struck a wounded part of him and, for a moment, he cannot speak for the shock of it. His eyes track the tears that well and fall upon my cheeks.

"Is it me you doubt, then?" he asks. "Aye, though I came late to it, _I have treasured thee._"

So great is the feeling that strikes at my heart, I cannot speak. Ah, neither can I look upon him! I lower my head to hide what must be clear upon my face. _Ai! _ So long have been the years I have yearned to hear words of these kind from him, only to hear them now. He could not have caused me more pain had he, instead, treated my heart with disdain.

I know not his thoughts, for I can see naught but the shadows of my lap. He takes in breath as to speak but, at first, only silence follows.

"In truth, lady, I had given up on it," he says. "The years wore on and such was the plight of the Dúnedain of the Northland, I came to know aught else I might aspire to a fool's dream. As lost and out of place as you find yourself here, so was I." His thumbs brush gently upon my wrists. "Then I came upon you singing and gathering reeds upon the edge of the river. And you offered me a way back, a path and a companion upon it.

"Do you wish it of me?" he asks. "Would you have me reject the chance offered, set aside my claim upon the throne, and return to you in the North as I am now?"

Oh, how I long to say "aye." I know not an he truly offers it, nor what he would do should I say I wish it of him. But I do not think I shall tempt either of our hearts with such a thing.

"_Nay_," I say and lift my head to look upon him. I must clear my throat so I may speak. My hands are not free to wipe at my cheeks and there I must suffer the chill of the rising winter air upon them. "Do not return to the North without having made the attempt. Should you not succeed in your claim to the throne of Gondor, there is little you and I can do to fend off the years of weary defeat that shall follow. It would break both your will and your heart to have not done all within your power to prevent it. I have no great wish for you to return home to find you can do little but watch your folk pass to naught but the tumble of stone upon our heights and the curiosity of middens and odd sounding words from a long-gone tongue."

I feel empty, as had a wind blown through my heart and swept it clean. I have but one last thing to say.

"And yet, though_ still, I love thee,_ I must cling to the hope you love your people and your daughter more. You must set me aside," I say and his grip on my hands tightens painfully and he drops his head to press it tightly against my knuckles.

"Should you, Aragorn, Lord of the Dúnedain, not fulfill your vow to protect your child and your kin of the Northlands, I, as _híril nín_, will hold you in default and act in accord to ensure it done."

Slowly, he shakes his head. His voice rises from where he lies, and I think my heart shall break for the wretchedness I hear in it.

"_Thou art my wife! I beg of thee,_ s_et not thy heart nor thy will against me."_

"It is already done. We were bound upon the condition I provide you with an heir and by my barrenness are our vows dissolved. You may set me aside without rancor, without blame or bitterness. You must make your choice anew."

He does not speak, nor move. But, in the long moment we stay thus, I hear what he does not say.

He does not speak of regret, of the vanity of allowing the intellect to reason away what the spirit would have moved him to do those years ago when the Elders pressed him to bind himself to a woman of his kind. He does not speak of the suffering that followed his decision to excise a part of his heart. He does not speak of his dismay at the pain I have felt at his hands for it. He does not speak of the deep well of what we owe in penitence to the small child we left behind in that high place with its windblown grasses and nodding heads of buttercup. And now it seems it had all been but an illusion, the fear and the duty that had driven reason to demand so high a price of our hearts.

Though he may be so greatly shocked at the chasm I have opened afore his feet he cannot find speech for it, to me the choice is clear. Should he succeed or sacrifice his life in the attempt, it ends here. I will not see him again.

It is time.

"Aragorn," I whisper into his dark crown, "go with my blessing." I take a breath to still the trembling in my voice. "_Thou facest a shadowed road and a long one. I pray the Valar watch over thee and those in thy care, give thee strength for thy task, and keep thee safe._"

His head lifts from my hands but remains bowed as he rises to his knees. I think he waits for me to say one thing more, for ne'er have I failed to end with a plea for him to return home each other time we have taken our farewells. When it does not come, his eyes glitter beneath his lowered lids.

"Nienelen," he says low and takes my hands in his to make of them a tender cup. There he lays his face. His skin warms mine. So soft is the press of his lips there I nigh cannot feel their touch.

He rises then and, when he turns, his stride leads him swiftly away.

~oOo~


	67. Chapter 66

~ Chapter 66 ~

_Maybe, it has been appointed so, that by my loss the kingship of Men may be restored. Therefore, though I love you, I say to you: Arwen Undómiel shall not diminish her life's grace for a less cause. She shall not be the bride of any Man less than the King of both Gondor and Arnor._

LOTR: Appendix A: Here Follows a Part of the Tale of Aragorn and Arwen

~oOo~

I am, atimes, as unmoored as a leaf upon the broad waters of the Bruinen. I know not whither I am, nor where I shall be borne. For I cannot tell should the days pass slowly or swiftly in this place, for they blend one tother without the marking of their passage.

My lord is gone.

I hope, one day, to hear the tale told of his journeys, but am uncertain whose voice shall bring the news so far north to tell me of it.

Here in Imladris I am left behind in a place of beauty that is not mine, alien to me in a way beyond the reach of Men. I move between its walls, eat and find rest in its halls, walk amidst its tall trees and along its riverbanks, but I cannot touch it. It seems a tale of some far time and place my people have never known. And I know not how my heart shall e'er find its way home.

Even my dreams are strange. They leave me with more questions than they answer. For I dream again and again of a place I do not know. I dream of the crying of gulls and the shadow of tall towers upon a lake so broad I cannot see the far shore, but the water dissolves to mist upon a far bank beyond sight. Its moods are many, the water. Atimes, I lean out o'er stone sills to catch the spray of foam as the waves batter the rocks below. Snow whirls and rises upon the wind. The flakes catch one upon the other as so much featherdown ere they fall. Others, the rising sun throws soft blues and pinks upon a broad pane of water like unto glass that ripples and laps at sand, chasing small piping birds up the shore, only for them run after its retreat.

And through it all, around corners, and glimpsed as through a veil, I see a young woman; tall, with a strong nose and locks of long, black hair in many thin braids that swing from her head as she moves, skin the color of darkened bronze, and with the eyes of a woman I have not met. I am too slow for her, and she laughs at me, her teeth flashing bright against her skin. She pulls me by my hand up winding stairs to a high room of many windows bare but for a large, round stone of darkened glass set upon a pedestal. And though it is strange to me, I know it shall quicken with light and warmth should we set our will to it. In the way of dreams, it seems I cannot recognize her face, though I should. For my hands come to her face and there frame it, but my heart breaks when her name catches in my throat and I cannot call to her. Such is the beauty of the joy that shines from her, it is as a beacon lit deep within the night.

And I want… I want to hope.

The winter has been dark, with its days of little light foreshortened by the stony heights that surround the House of Elrond. I keep most to the inner rooms of those allotted to me. My flesh cannot bear the cold so well as my hosts', and their rooms, open atimes to the wind and snow, fail of their welcome to a mortal guest. Even the elder Halfling who has made these halls his home is little to be seen, though he seldom misses the comforts of table and hearth. So I stay in my lord's rooms, again occupying a place his mother abandoned, and warm myself as I can in the light of my daughter's eyes.

Yet, even so, I am restless. In my home in the Angle, even were my lord away, while the land rested I would be caring for the sheep, working the wool collected in the past season, nursing our stores until the land bore fruit again, and tending to the care and comfort of my lord's people. But no longer will my hands spin and weave the wool of my lord's dower. No longer will I tend my lord's hearth and make his house a place of comfort for him. And, greatly do I fear it, mayhap too, no longer will my lord's people require care, and word of it but waits for me to discover it.

In her kindness, Tithiniel found a coat of a thick wool lined with rabbit fur the color of cream for me, and I find I can bear the chill winds more easily for it. So on this day not long past mid-winter, when the sun shines pale but full and brings a false spring to the valley, my feet carry me on new paths through the halls of Imladris. The Hall of Fire, I know, and the feast hall in which I sit with my daughter under the Lord and Lady of Rivendell's keen gaze. The gardens with their chattering canals, waterfalls, and walkways lined in stone I know in their green and gold seasons, but not the quiet of their sleep, and I find the carpet of snow and bracken, black boles and silver arms of trees have their own peace. Such is the handiwork of the Eldar race that, from one moment to the next, I cannot always see where art begins, and nature ends.

Much of the afternoon passes this way, my daughter in the care of Tithiniel, and I losing myself in the gardens of Imladris until I find myself wandering its halls again, passing beneath high curved canopies of patterned glass and across the colored shadows the throw beneath my feet. I thought it first the silence of winter that had settled upon the vale, but even I have overheard talk of the Grey Havens and the ships that leave from there atimes. I know not how oft a company might gather and then depart. But, of late, the wind blows leaves or drifting snow through courtyards that are empty of folk where once they were busy. The paths I walk are filled with the sound of the river but not much of speech. When there is singing, it drifts in o'er rills and rivulets and under arches from the groves of beech and chestnut and pine, and comes less oft in the burst of voices raised within the Hall of Fire that had once sounded across the even's sky. With fewer eyes upon me, I have grown more adventurous in my wandering and wonder at the darkened doorways and cold braziers upon the terraces I pass.

'Twas then I turned a corner and found myself in a long hall filled with scrolls, books, and other things of metal and glass I have no words to describe. Along one side the balustrade opens upon the vale and the ever-present sound of roaring water rising from the Bruinen as it flows beneath the hall. Mist rises from the river and the stone of the balustrade is cold with its moisture.

I turn my gaze upon the shelves, bewildered by the maze of volumes and scrolls to be seen carefully stored behind glass. Strolling their length, I can tell little of what might be writ within, but the bindings and coffers are beautiful in their own right.

"Do you find somewhat you would wish to read?" asks a deep, quiet voice.

I whirl about at the sound to find the Master of Imladris seated upon a high stool behind his writing desk. Parchment lies fixed to its tall angled surface, but he has laid aside his metal stylus. He looks at ease, sitting upon the edge of his stool with one heel of his boot hooked upon its rung and the other foot resting upon the floor. He is dressed in heavy silks the color of still waters beneath twilight as is his wont and his dark hair is held plainly from his face, which is grave as he looks upon me.

"_Forgive me_," I stammer and make a quick reverence. Only now does it occur to me I have stumbled upon the Master's private library and silently I curse my obtuseness.

He frowns and rises from his seat as I step back. We have bare exchanged two words since my welcome in Rivendell. I can think only its lord finds my presence a vexing thing and so avoids it.

But he comes to my side and says, "There is naught to forgive, Lady Nienelen, all you see here is free to any who wish its study."

A breath later I realize what I am being offered and turn to the shelves in awe. In the years we lived together in the Angle, I must have committed to memory the scrolls and codices in my lord's own small collection, the worn remnants of a much larger and more kingly library. I have thumbed well my own leather-bound journal handed down from my foremothers until I know each line of the drawings and can turn unerringly to whichever list of ingredients, song, or pattern of heddle-wrapping I wish.

Together, we look o'er the long shelves. I know the coffers must hold scrolls of an age beyond my ken and gilt letters glow from rows of bound writings, but though I continue to look, I cannot decide. Indeed, by their titles it seems they are histories of not just Elves and Men and Dwarves, but of the world as seen in the movement of the stars above our heads and the growing of the grass beneath our feet. Treatises there are, too, of numbers and the study of metals and beasts of forest, mountain, and plains.

And then I can read no more. The letters upon their spines seem as foreign as had they been written upon the far western shores on which mortal men may not tread. All this, when he came of the age for it, my son would have been set to mastering, and I would have been as quickly sundered from him in thought as in body.

Master Elrond smiles a little at what must look like my confusion and asks, "Of what would you read?"

"I know not," I say, turning away from the titles of treatises upon war and the policies of governance from across the ages of Middle-earth, "somewhat of hope, mayhap."

He gives me a solemn, searching look and then touches the crook of my arm, leading me to a cupboard. There he opens its doors and withdraws a small volume bound in a deep blue velvet. Stretching out his hand, he motions me to a seat and table by the balustrade, where I can look out upon the waters and forests of Rivendell and read. When I sit, he hands me the volume and strides across the library. The book is a thing of beauty of its own, the velvet embossed with a single rayed star upon its cover. The lord returns and, with a slight smile, hands me a page-turner carved of bone and nods ere retiring to his task.

The binding is stiff, and the pages are a fresh cream as I open to the fly-leaf. The parchment is unstained by time or the oils of handling. He has given me the tale of Eärendil and, though the star of the Silmaril may guide the Eldar ever west, I must wonder what hope may be found in these pages for the race of Men.

I turn the page and begin to read, the Sindarin tongue when used in art slow to form in my thoughts, but I repeat each line, murmuring the words to bring their meaning to mind.

It must be that I frown as I bend o'er the book, for next I hear, "Does it not bring you enjoyment?"

I blink and look up to find Master Elrond watching me from his desk. What am I to say? I would not have him think the wife of the Lord of the Dúnedain so untutored she cannot comprehend speech other than her own. But, in truth, though I can read the words easily enough, I am clearly missing somewhat in the reading of its verse.

"Mayhap because it is not meant to be read silently," he offers when I stare at him, but he does not ease my concern.

I dare not read the words aloud. My command of the Sindarin tongue is weak and I know best its vocabulary of rebuke. Oft was my voicing corrected by my lord and it would no doubt pain the lore-master to hear my attempt. As had he comprehended the source of my hesitation, Master Elrond rises from his seat and, coming to me, offers a hand for the small volume. Taking it and the page turner, he seats himself across from me. He faces the page, but his eyes focus not on the words. Mayhap they see somewhat in between, some place or time I cannot perceive. His voice is slow and deep as he recites.

_The winds of wrath came driving him,  
and blindly in the foam he fled  
from west to east and errandless,  
unheralded he homeward sped.  
There flying Elwing came to him,  
and flame was in the darkness lit;  
more bright than light of diamond  
the fire upon her carcanet.1_

His speech is as music, with clear tones no mortal voice can achieve. It is a pleasure to hear. I look out upon the vale and listen as he reads.

The waters of the Bruinen pour from the mountainside and a silver light fills the valley. We are as an island borne upon a stormy sea of Darkness. Swifts float on the current of air above the river and seem as bright glints of light slipping along the streams of the even's sky. Soon, I cannot hear the words he speaks as separate notes. They glide one into the other, losing their meaning. But the images they evoke remain potent and I am filled with a sudden yearning at this tale of a cruel, cruel separation of husband and wife and parents and child that is the price of hope for those fated to live under the approaching Shadow.

My hand presses my lips hard to my teeth as I gaze out upon the roaring waters, but I do not see them, for my eyes have filled with tears. It seems to me there are no paths that lead to the light. Failure ends in a defeat that would sweep all I know and love aside, yet even victory brings its own bitterness.

When my tears fall, the song of the elf-lord's voice ceases, but it is not until he moves I take notice. He leans forward, his face silent, giving me no means of discerning his thoughts. I stiffen, not knowing what he intends, but he raises a hand and delicately takes a tear from my cheek upon his fingertips.

"'_The tears of the Children of Iluvatar number as the grains of sand upon the western shores_'," he murmurs and gazes at the tear on his hand as were it a wondrous thing.

"You are counted among the very wise, Master Elrond," say I. "Have you the cure for the grief of a stubborn heart?" I know full well he does not but hope only to make light of my sorrow.

"Not I," he says and rubs his fingers dry. The smile he gives me in return is gently wry. "My heart is as perverse, and seldom listens to my own counsel."

I laugh and am surprised by the wretchedness I hear in its sound. "I think my heart must be that of a mule, for I cannot tell it aught."

"Think you it should be otherwise?" he says and closes the book. "Should the coldness of pitiless reason rule our thoughts?"

When I do not answer, he proceeds. "Our tears but do them honor, those we mourn. Would you have it their loss meant so little as to not move you?"

"No."

His voice is kind as he leans back into his chair, his hands resting upon the book in his lap. "Then take comfort in your tears, but do not look too far ahead for griefs that may not be."

We fall each into our own silence. In it, I find memories of my lord and our son at their rising from their beds. Their voices echo in the solar above my head as they dress, and their feet pound down the stairs. My son races into the hall with his father not far behind, the promise that beams from their faces a painful thing.

I emerge from my thoughts to the roar of the waters and the sweet chittering of the swifts as they swoop past the balustrade and climb upward into the air. Their shadows fly across us. The Lord of Rivendell watches me, his face sober and still.

"I fear that Imladris holds little joy for you," he says, "and there are no kin here to give you comfort."

"It is no matter." I shift in my chair and tuck my hands into the generous sleeves of my coat. I am stiff with holding myself still and with the pain of remembrance. "Your welcome has been most kind, Master Elrond. My kin are gone and have long lain in our barrows. I would find little comfort amongst them.

"In coming here, I do not regret them," I say and smile a little to sweeten the bitterness of my words. "I fear you find me no man's child."

His brows quirk upward of a sudden, and long he looks upon me ere speaking.

Then he frowns and shakes his head as were his thoughts arguing among themselves. "A strange chance of the world it has seemed to me, that Aragorn cleaved himself to you ere his time and against my foreseeing," he says. "But, mayhap I was mistaken."

Mistaken? It seems my heart has stopped, frozen with fear. Have I mistaken despair for hope? Thrown away this thing I love for want of understanding?

"What things have you foreseen?"

"I see little and oft much confused," Master Elrond says, his voice sharpening, "but some things I know for their having been plainly said. Forgive me, Lady Nienelen, but Aragorn came to me when you broke with your vows to him. Have you done this thing?"

"I have," I say, my face heating beneath his intent gaze.

He shakes his head and frowns as were he puzzling over a thing his mind knows but his heart cannot comprehend. "Oft is it true," he says softly, as were he speaking to himself, "but here is a thing my heart does not understand, how Men can bind themselves one to the other without love."

I gasp a broken laugh and his frown deepens, but I can only look away. In the past, I poured out words of longing to the empty night that seemed to me to be of a bitter eloquence. Yet, now, where they might be welcome, I find I cannot give them voice. They lodge in my heart as a brilliantly edged spear and, to my shame, all I have to offer the Lord of Rivendell in their place are my tears.

When I remain silent, Lord Elrond sighs, his frown easing. "And so, you weep," says he and leaves me to my silence.

"And so, I weep," I say when I can master my voice. "Did not he also speak of my lack, that I can no longer bear him a child?"

"He did not," he says and looks upon me solemnly.

"So, it seems he must set me aside, would you not agree?"

He stirs a little but says neither yea nor nay.

I wipe at my cheeks and swallow away the sorrow that threatens to spill forth in more tears.

"Even so, I would not suffer my loss, Master Elrond, for any less cause than the renewal of the kingship of Men and the peace it shall ensure long after he is gone."

He stares at me with somewhat akin to astonishment. And then he laughs. Though their echoes are rueful, great peals of mirth ring from him. He does not look at me but gazes off into some distant place. His laughter is not meant for me.

When his gaze returns to fall upon me, it is with some sharpness of a fell humor with which he speaks. "Nor would have I."

"Come," he says then, and rises, laying aside the small volume upon the table. He smiles, inviting me with his outstretched hand to stand by him.

We lean against the balustrade, our hair lifted by the breeze rising from the rushing waters. My own gaze is drawn to the Master moreso than his home and the sight eases my sadness. His eyes are bright and his face is clear, full of the light that pours through the valley. His gaze softens and grows pensive as it falls upon his daughter sitting with her companions on a terrace below. But soon he has raised his eyes and looks out upon the halls and balconies, the heights of the mountains and their swaying pines with a pride that seems to fill his heart to bursting. He closes his eyes and breathes deep of the air.

When he has released it, he turns to me with his eye alight, though there be tears that wet his cheeks. I return his smile and then look out at the forest that covers the steep slopes. The sun dips behind the mountains, laying their shadows upon the tops of the trees. The hour grows late, but I give little thought to the ordering of the day and am reminded sharply again that time in this place does not mark itself to the rhythms I had once known.

"I would be better kin to you, Nienelen," Master Elrond says and lightly rests his hand atop mine.

His clasp is warm with a newfound fondness and I find I am at ease with him where once I stood only in awe of the years that had sharpened the penetration of his gaze.

"I had thought, mayhap, you did not love him, Aragorn, and so could turn your back upon him when danger threatened. It grieved me my son had bound himself to you, who had no regard for him." He smiles sadly and presses my hand in his. "And now I find, now I know your heart better, I am grieved anew."

I had not thought to find understanding in the father of the Lady of Rivendell, but thus he offers it and I would not refuse. I return the clasp of his hand and bow my gratitude. He withdraws his hand.

"Should you know of any cause for my grief other than my fears, Master Elrond," say I, "I would not know it."

"I know of none. My heart tells me little but to both fear and rejoice."

"A fine pair we make, then, Master Elrond," I say and laugh. "We know not which fate we fear shall befall us and in which gladness we shall rejoice, but are guaranteed to feel both pain and joy mixed in full measure."

"So the world ever is, is it not?" says he and smiles.

Far below, I hear the high squeal of my daughter. For the warmth of the sun, Tithiniel must have brought her out of doors to play. She hides in the folds of the cloak of a tall elf with long golden hair I know but distantly. He shakes his head while his companions hide their smiles, every line of his stance speaking of weary tolerance, but then bursts into pursuit, at which my daughter squeals and trips upon a corner of his cloak as he turns.

Down she goes onto the stone of the walkway and, as expected, next I hear her wail. Tears are shed and blotted with the rich cloth as he takes her upon his knee, but next he peers under elbows and knees, beneath hair, up noses and behind ears, checking all about for any minor hurt she may have taken, and she starts to laughing, pushing away at his hands.

"'Findel!" I hear her call in protest, laughing so hard I believe she shall next take to hiccupping should he proceed.

I shake my head and smile, though my heart pains me at the sight. Aye, keen is my daughter's delight in the world. It is good the elves have the patience of thousands of years, else, very soon, she would wear her playmates thin. For the highness of her laughter and calls, I think Elenir tiring swiftly and growing hungry, though she would never admit it.

When I look away, it is to find the Master of Imladris beside me, laughing fondly at the sight. I am unsure why this should surprise me, what with his words at his first meeting her, but I find I am caught by his delight.

I should go to my daughter, I think, and, mayhap, speak a little with her companion. It will be to put a halt to her play and she will not like it much, but should the elf-lord be of such power as to have been sent out against The Nine, no doubt he holds position of influence amongst the elves of the Hidden Vale.

I have one last obligation to which I must attend ere I may go. Though my heart beats in my throat at the fear I shall ask too much and only damage my cause, I must ask it now I have the chance.

"Lord Elrond? I have no right to ask this of you. I can only beg of you your pity."

He turns, and the light of mirth sparked by my daughter's foolishness shines yet in his eyes.

At this, his face sobers. "What is it you would ask?"

"The men of the Dúnedain of the North are few, and their need is desperate. Would you not have pity on them? They that would defend them have made of them a sacrifice by which all the Free Peoples may yet be saved. They are alone and are your kin from afar."

"I have not forgotten them, Nienelen, nor has their lord," he says and looks upon me gravely. "Aragorn, too, made this plea ere he left. But, do not you forget, I have my own Council with which to contend. We are not invulnerable here and the numbers who may take up our defense lessen with each passing season. And I am master, not king, and cannot command them to do what they will not."

At this I bow and accept both his censure and somber pity. "I am afraid I have distracted you from more important matters."

"I can think of none more deserving of my attention at this moment.

"I do not know when you will leave my care, Lady Nienelen," he goes on, "but while you abide here, I would wish you consider yourself as my kin, for indeed you are, both by marriage and of your own right."

"_My thanks to thee_, Master Elrond," say I and bow again.

There I leave him. His robes hang about him, swaying with his movements and the breeze as he leans upon the balustrade and looks about upon the folk gathered there. Warm is the light that shines from his face, lit as it is by the fondness of his smile.

~oOo~

1 J.R.R. Tolkien: LOTR: Many Meetings


	68. Chapter 67

~ Chapter 67 ~

_And Aragorn said to Halbarad: 'What is that that you bear, kinsman?' For he saw that instead of a spear he bore a tall staff, as it were a standard, but it was close-furled in a black cloth bound about with many thongs._

ROTK: The Passing of the Grey Company

~oOo~

_~ TA 3019 20__th__ day of Narvinyë: I know not how Lord Elrond discovered it, but it seems he has had news from the east. He knows little, but conveyed reassurances that my lord lives and there is yet reason to hope. He then begged my aid in sending missives to the Angle, for which, too, there is yet hope. There, he advises our lord's Rangers gather as swiftly as could be made possible, and attend upon the Lord of Imladris for counsel ere they travel south along the River Anduin to meet him. Long has my lord and his kin debated such a prospect and planned for it. I have thus commanded it. _

~oOo~

Baskets and baskets there are of brightly colored fibers lining the shelves of this room, hidden as it is from the greater hall by its woven hangings. I can bare breathe for the desire to open them all and feel silken, warm, or nubbined textures hidden within. Oh, had I more time for it! A guilty pleasure it is, for, her duties to the House of the Hidden Vale done for the day, the Lady and her companions have abandoned the weaving hall with its terrace and open windows in favor of sitting in the Hall of Fire for its greater warmth. The wind gusts chill down from the mountains, bright and sharp and full of the scent of snow as it is, it drives all indoors afore its rabid bite. My fingers shall soon grow stiff for the coolness of the room even behind its curtains, but rather would I choose my own wool than ask, yet again, for Tithiniel to make my choice for me because I am too timid to dare face the Lady whose room this is.

After some time, my days have begun to take a new shape. It seems, now the Lord of Imladris and I have come to a better understanding, I profit greatly from it. I have returned time and again to the libraries of the Imladris, and there he and I speak of tales and remembrances of loss, defiance, and mercy. There I continue my campaign of begging his aid atimes for the Dúnedain. And though he is sympathetic and patient with my attempts, and indeed seems fair willing himself, his answer remains the same. _Ai! _ I confess I am nigh to despair of how next to proceed, for my efforts have been welcomed, but seem to bear little fruit. And I can think of naught else to do.

Where he can act on his own, Lord Elrond has been most generous. For he discerns where my thoughts tend ere e'en I am aware, and lays out books and scrolls upon a table he has chosen for my use. There they await me after I have broken my fast, and I spend much of my mornings studying the treatises and accountings of the Halls of the great among Elves and Men and Dwarven folk. We speak there of both the failures and successes of policy, diplomacy, and politics o'er the known history of the world.

There I bring, atimes, my daughter. To my shame, I found, at the first, I must beg Master Elrond's forgiveness for Elenir's inquisitive little fingers and the patter of her feet running between his tables and shelves and colonnades until it seemed the Lord of the Hidden Vale unable to attend to aught he had afore him. When I would gather my child and remove her so he could have quiet, he arose and begged her to stay, so long had it been since his halls had harbored a child as young as she. Indeed, not since her father had been her age had it been, and for many long years ere that.

Ever after, then, a basket appeared tucked beneath the table filled with balls of felted wool, cast off clothing of various makes, carved figures, brightly painted blocks of wood, and a curious instrument of strips of thin metal plucked with the thumbs for her eager fingers. When he repaired hither from his morning Council, the Lord of Imladris took to entertaining Elenir with the eternal games of childhood for a little while I read, making a great game of hunting for her while she breathed noisily behind shelves or wall hangings and peered out at him. He then found pieces of a white chalk and he and my daughter, his brother's distant kin, knelt upon the floor together. There upon the slate tiles warmed by the hot water springing from deep within the mountains, he taught her her first letters and encouraged her attempts to master them until all of our belongings bore her scribbling upon them.

So enamored of him she became, after some time strewing the toys about the floor and running through the hall so that the cloak she wound about her neck flew behind her, she would cease with her play and await his coming. Hanging upon the carven vines about the door, she stared down the long hall through which he would stride, only to brighten at the sight of him rising upon the stairs and run to him. He would then emerge into the sunlight streaming into the hall with his face warmed with fondness and my daughter upon his hip babbling at him in a mix of Elven speech and the common tongue.

I must not tarry long in the weaving hall. Though she seems to take delight in it, Tithiniel's time is not always her own to spend on my daughter. Within a box of curved pine bark I find a finely-carded wool of long and loosely curling hairs. 'Tis the color of the snow upon the mountain, unblemished by soil or moth. Quickly I roll the roving into a large, loose ball and drop it to the basket I have set aside for my own work. It joins the ebony spindle there and two stiff-bristled carding-combs I have come upon in a basket of the odd tool.

Opening the next basket reveals skeins of a thin, deeply-gold silk and swiftly I close the lid upon them. No matter its luster and the ache in my hands for the forbidden pleasure of touching it, I dare not leave the oils of my skin to spoil its sheen. At the next, I stare into its depths. It seems much neglected, stuck as it was upon the bottom of the shelf and deeply packed with fibers. These are the tattered ends of silk spun from the casings, combed into a rough form of roving and waiting to be spun into a slubby-textured yarn. This I dare touch and do, my breath sighing from me for the slip of fiber against skin. It seems I touch upon naught but the air warmed by the rays of the spring sun.

My hands deep in the fine stuff, I wonder. Aye! Would it not be lovely could it be done? Had it ever occurred to the folk of the Elves to combine the two, silk and wool in one strand? Surely it has, but I have seen naught of it about. I dare not attempt the spinning of the silk alone. I comprehend none of its ways and can only stare at the large-spoked wheels upon which it is worked.

Oh, but the temptation is strong as heady wine and I am drunk with it. How shall the fibers latch upon one another in the fulling? Or shall they not, and the silk shine in thin threads bundled amidst the shrunken wool and give the surface of the cloth a curled texture? I know not, but my hands work swiftly to gather enough silk for the attempt, only to find it is to little end effect. For I pull out what I think is a coherent swathe only to be led, fiber by fiber into yet another bundle of threads. What a curious thing the way they cling one tother as should I seek to unwind a spider's web. However shall it take to the carding?

I am eager to attempt the carding of a mix of the two, just enough to see how it spins up ere I take on the bigger of the tasks. Far too long has it been since I have felt this quickening of blood upon the imagined feel of yarn and, my heart lightened with the news I have heard, I am glad for it. And so it is with swift hands and feet that I take up my basket and fling aside the rug, so I might make my way to my own rooms and begin.

The ranks of women of high birth from which the Lady draws her companions have thinned. I know not if she is in the habit of running her own errands, or no longer has one to ask, but she is there, far upon the other end of the hall, bending to her basket and searching therein, and my joy fades from me as so much dew rising beneath the hot sun.

Between us sit the long looms of the elves. Strange contraptions, their frames sit upon the floor, with treadles to raise the heddle bars and shuttles that fly across the warp threads as so much fish darting amidst the reeds. They will not hide me, though greatly tempted am I to shrink against the wall. The Lady rises, her eyes keen and searching, though the sound I make is slight.

Nay, I shall not slink from the room as a thief, for I am none. Instead, I nod my greeting and turn to stride quickly from the room, looking upon her solemn eyes no more.

"Why do you run from me?"

I halt. She has dropped what she held in her hands back to its basket, and now faces me.

"I cannot think, lady, you would wish to have me anywhere near."

"Think you so?" She draws close and her eyes flash with a sharp and sudden light. "You broke no vow to me. _It is not thee with whom I have quarrel_, Lady Nienelen."

She has come upon me and, of the first, I can see her close. She holds herself with a tension that breaks to glimmers of light as she moves, as were I catching a glimpse of somewhat tamped down and hidden about her person.

"So you have found aught you would enjoy of your own, then?" she asks, her fingers straying to the contents of the basket I hold.

It is all I can do to hold my voice firm and not stammer. I feel caught out as were I a young child stealing from her mother's belongings.

"Aye, lady, I would, with your permission."

"You do not need it," she says and withdraws her hand. "You may choose what you wish. Have I not decreed it so?"

"Aye, lady."

I think then, mayhap, the interview done, and I may retreat to the rooms assigned us and trouble the lady no longer, but it is not so. For, gathering her skirts about her, she then sits upon the end of a near weaver's bench.

"Will you not join me?" she asks and motions to another bench nearby. "I am glad to have found you, though we come together only by chance, it seems. _I have long desired to have speech with thee_."

Indeed? I do not think I have longed to hear much of what the Lady of Imladris may say. But, still, drawing her enmity will do me little good. I sit upon another bench and set aside my basket. She does not speak at first, and I wonder at her thoughts, for she does little but look closely at me, her face keen and searching as were she taking my measure.

"My father tells me I know little of the ways of Men," she says, as had she long rehearsed the words. "But I do not see with my father's eyes. I need not know the ways of all men, just one. Nor must I know the ways of all mortal women, just the one."

Her hands lie pale and still, clasped tightly together upon her knees. "Forgive me, but I have found no words that are not cruel. Though the spirit may speak plainly, flesh may yet doubt. I know this of the race of Men.

"This, too, I know," she continues. "You love him."

At this, I must cast down my eyes. I care not for this feeling, of being laid bare afore her, and my face heats beneath the intensity of her gaze.

"And so here we are," says she. "A strange kinship we have, you and I, do you not think? Our hearts are much the same. We both have given our love to the same man and are the cause of the other's pain."

I rise and, grabbing up my basket, turn away for the door with no thought of giving farewell, for I see no reason to speak of this. It is but a wrench of a knife within my heart, this thing that only causes us hurt. Should I desire to achieve aught in my time here amongst her kin, mayhap 'twould be wise I shun all contact with her utterly.

"_Stay, lady__!_" she calls after me.

"To what purpose?" I turn swiftly about, my foot scraping upon the stone floor, to find her standing to match me.

"You owe me a debt, Lady Nienelen, and I would see it repaid."

"Do I?" Stung, I can only think she would put me in the role of usurper of her love's regard and would have me pay for it. My back stiffens.

"Aye, lady, for when first you came here," she says and takes a step to me, her light eyes as steel, "Lord Aragorn came to me on your behalf. He asked naught for himself; no forbearance, no mercy, no forgiveness. He said he would bear whatever harsh words I would wish on him, but he begged my aid. You were alone, he said, and bear a great grief, and he begged you not be left comfortless. And so, when you and your daughter charmed my father, I gave him my blessing. _I have done this for thee._"

"You wish me to repay you for the common courtesy owed a guest in your father's House and permission to associate with whom I will?"

At this, she is surprised into laughter and halts, sharp though her delight may be. "Aye! My father said your wit was quick.

"Good!" she cries, coming close, "I doubt not you shall have need of it."

Enough of this! "_What couldst thou wish from me that I could possibly have within my power to give?_"

"_Come with me,"_ she commands with a lift of her chin. _"__I have a thing to show thee_. I think you will wish to see it."

Sighing, I clutch my basket close, for she moves swiftly and is already gone, her feet light in their travel through the hall. I shall be hard put to keep pace and I must wonder if she hurries for this purpose. And yet, what else is there to do but follow and see what ever this is through.

"Come," she says again when we reach the door to her rooms.

I have ne'er entered the private rooms of the Lord and his family. I linger under its lintel, for it seems an unwarranted intrusion. We had passed through covered terraces where once must have hung curtains and burned fires in the sconces but now only blow the thin and tattered leaves of winter. And now we come to a room warmed by the heat beneath the floor, where light streams through tall, glazed windows to light upon hangings of silk and bright flowers that look naught so much as blooms but birds fluttered to brief rest upon the vase in which they are kept.

I am reluctant to continue much further. I think I wish not to know more of the Lady's life, to see the rooms my lord might know and wonder what memories he has of this settle with its mattress covered o'er in velvet, that view of the frothing falls of the Bruinen and the westering light that strikes the dome of the glass gardens, and the sweet smell of flowering vines that steals upon it all no matter it be in the depth of winter's chill.

The Lady has preceded me into the room and goes to a tall chest, not waiting for me. There she flings open its doors and takes from it a carefully rolled bundle of linen. Soon she has it unbound and spread out afore me on a table in the reflected sunlight, where I may see it to best effect.

I can do naught but come close, abandoning my basket by the door, for it draws me there. Oh! Aye! This! I have seen it afore in dreams that still come atimes, flying upon a cross of dark wood and men in black and silver gear of war beneath it, the stink of death rising from about them. The cloth is not truly black but made of fine silk threads of brilliantly dark colors, that, seen from a fair distance, tease the eye as were it made of the rich hues of raven-dark feathers. Now I see it close, I know it for what it is. It is a thing of power as only the Eldar can make, each stitch imbued with the uncanny chasm between Elder and Latter born.

No matter the dread that tightens my throat and fills my thoughts, I find I cannot look upon it without a great stirring of my heart. Oh, but I wish only to see it flying high where all can look upon it and know the King is come. Let his allies be heartened and his enemies be cast down at the sight!

And yet, for all its power, it is unfinished. The crown is but laid upon the fabric and fastened, not yet bound to the cloth.

Her touch lingers upon the gems affixed as stars upon the king's standard. Ah, how they will catch the light when my lord's herald shall display his royal colors, argent and sable of the Citadel of the South Kingdom. I wonder from what fine work that once graced her neck or wrist did she prize them. Who had gifted them to her? Did she now regret their sacrifice?

"There may be little left I can do," she says.

Her words startle me, though they are lowly said, so lost was I in the sight of what she, daughter of Celebrían and kin to the Lady of the Golden Wood, had wrought. When I look up, it is to find her sharp look upon me, assessing I know not what. Oh, _ai!_ She does not know!

"But this I can," she goes on. She lifts her hand from the cloth as could she bear its touch no longer. "Will you not take it? And send it when it is time?"

"No," I say, and her frown is as a sudden shadow that falls upon her face.

"Why would you not?"

"Should I ask it of you, could you find it within you to forgive him?" I ask, though I hardly recognize what words have formed themselves upon my lips. She blinks at me.

"To what end?" bursts from her.

"Should he set me aside in your favor, would you go to him?"

I have caught her so by surprise, it seems she has lost all strength to her voice and can do naught but stare at me.

"What is this?"

_Ai! _I had thought her father would have told her, but, again, mayhap not, should he not wish to raise unfounded hope within her.

"Why should I wish such a thing upon you?" she asks, her brow drawn in a fine, taut line. "Even after all this, I had not thought his heart so fickle! Has he done this thing?"

"Nay, he has not," I say and turn to face her, for she has come from about the table to stand afore me, "but the choice has not yet been forced upon him. I can no longer bear him a male heir and it shall leave much in doubt after his passing. All our struggles may yet be for naught, in the end for it. But, of this I am sure, I, and his people, have sacrificed too much to allow it."

At this, her voice sharpens. "Think again should you wish to use me as an enticement. 'Tis a cruel abuse of his heart that is more like to enrage than tempt him. With what power he could command, should he oppose you, by what means could you make the attempt to force his hand?"

I do not answer this and see no need to. _Ai! _ I need to find some way to end this ere I have angered her.

"Do what you will, Lady Arwen," say I, shaking my head. "I cannot force you to it. I can only beg. We are all but gone, his Dúnedain of the Northlands. We cling to what little we have, but even that has been worn away with little effort expended on the part of the Nameless One. Should you wish my aid? I would beg yours.

"You said I love him. I do. But I would have you complete your banner and send it to him of your own. Ever has your shadow ghosted upon my days as his wife, but what is my pride to the survival of those I love? The fate of my people rests upon his choice. And I will use whatever I have to hand and humble myself here afore you and beg it of you should it be asked of me."

She stares at me as one stunned and then breaks into full laughter.

Her laughter turn sharp and then, of a sudden she falls heavily to the chair at her back.

"_Ai!_ I am a fool," she cries. "I had thought to test you!"

A silence falls between us. In it comes the distant cry of cooing of doves where they have alighted upon the terrace canopy outside her windows. I know not should she wish me gone, but she says naught for a little, her fingers playing upon the hem of silken cloth. I, in turn, do little but watch her as light sparks off the gems against their black setting as her fingers move them.

"I must beg your forgiveness," she says, though she does not look upon me and speaks low. "It seems I have wasted far too much time in anger."

She laughs. It is soft and carries no mirth. "I think I had wished to hate you, Lady Nienelen. I had hoped you were cold or indifferent to your husband, or cruel to his children and so I could dismiss you from my thoughts and know he wore out his days in regret. I had hoped you dull and uninterested in the ways of the world, and then my father comes to me with tales of your keenness for it when he asked my permission to tutor you."

Here she motions at the banner laid out upon the table. "I had hoped to offer you this and thought myself the nobler for it." She laughs outright. "But here you, too, confound my attempts."

She stares at the work of silk and mithril and gems upon her table. I am unsure what it is I see in her, but I pull away a chair from beneath the table and sit upon it. I know not what it is, but there is somewhat just beyond grasp I must know.

"Come with me," she says, and leaves off stroking the line of silk to look upon me, "early upon the morrow, we travel to the southern slopes to oversee the pruning in the vineyards there."

I cannot think she does not have women of her acquaintance she would rather have with her than the wife of her lover and mother of his children.

"Why?"

"Oh," she says and laughs a little at that, though sadly.

"Do not think we have seen naught of suffering and the ills of war here," she goes on, glancing briefly out upon the spires and roofs of her father's house lit in golden light. "Our memories are long, and the hills, though green and high reaching still, bear yet their scars. Its beauty is but a glimpse of what it once was. The years bring naught but a twilight upon us here, so many already have left. My mother's leaving still pains my father, though he will not say it. Soon, I think, he, too, shall weary of the long fight without her."

I think I know what she shall say, and it stops my throat and my heart aches.

"He will leave," she says and looks away from me. "And I must then go with him.

"When the thought that watches o'er this valley is gone, those left of our folk will be alone and unprotected. All I have worked to preserve here for them will be gone. They shall fade, or be lost, and then forgot."

She presses her lips tightly together ere speaking again. So greatly am I stunned, I can only stare at her. My heart beats so that it pounds in my ears. For though she clearly fights against them, tears start in her eyes and her voice trembles a little.

"And I will have abandoned them to it."

_Ai!_ It strikes at my heart and my hand flies to my lips, there to still their shaking.

"I think you, too, know what that is like," she says and I see it again, that glimmer of light about her. "It is beautiful there this time of year, when the sun first lights upon the frost of the high meadows. I think, after all, I might like your company."

Her grasp is surprising strong. I can see little but the relief that brightens her face and makes it beautiful.

My heart lifts with the trembling laughter that shines through her tears, and I know she must see much the same when she looks upon me.

~oOo~


	69. Chapter 68

~ Chapter 68 ~

"_He grew to love the Northern lands and people, and he married Vidumavi, daughter of Vidugavia. It was some years before he returned. From this marriage came later the war of the Kin-strife…_

_But Eldacar eluded his enemies, and came to the North, to his kinsfolk in Rhovanion. Many gathered to him there, both of the Northmen in the service of Gondor, and of the Dúnedain of the northern parts of the realm. For many of the latter had learned to esteem him, and many more came to hate his usurper. This was Castamir, grandson of Calimehtar, younger brother of Rómendacil II…_

_Castamir had not long sat upon the throne before he proved himself haughty and ungenerous. He was a cruel man, as he had first shown in the taking of Osgiliath. He caused Ornendil son of Eldacar, who was captured, to be put to death; and the slaughter and destruction done in the city at his bidding far exceeded the needs of war._

Appendix A: Annals of the Kings and Rulers

'_Aye, curse the Southrons!' said Damrod. ''Tis said that there were dealings of old between Gondor and the kingdoms of the Harad in the Far South; though there was never friendship. In those days our bounds were away south beyond the mouths of Anduin, and Umbar, the nearest of their realms, acknowledged our sway. But that is long since. 'Tis many lives of Men since any passed to or fro between us. Now of late we have learned that the Enemy has been among them, and they are gone over to Him, or back to Him – they were ever ready to His will – as have so many also in the East."_

TTT: Of Herbs and Stewed Rabbit

~oOo~

_~ TA 3019 12__th__ day of Nénimë: Here, amidst the holdings of the library of the Master of Imladris have I found an accounting of the folk of the Defiant of Harad ere they settled in the hills of what became Arthedain. For, in their flight not long ere the downfall of Númenor, they came upon the Hidden Vale and there rested for some years ere they proceeded on. In it are told tales of oppression, rebellion, and retribution of which I make good and faithful copy here. _

_They speak of the ban of old set upon their stories, language, and customs, and the taking of their children from their homes to be fostered elsewhere. They tell of the death of the Butcher of Umbar and the scattering of his House in the face of the folk's wrath, and then the horror that followed upon his return among living men. 'Tis said the river Echuinen that flowed through the city on its way to the sea then ran red, not with the silt of the high hills from which the river sprang, but with the blood of my mother's forebears. _

_And so, even ere they had fled its bounds, long had they been sundered from the lands of their birth, and bitter was their parting. For the great of Númenor in Umbar had stolen all but that which was useful to them, and they had not even the tongue of their folk and their tales to comfort them. _

~oOo~

It seemed not long after, I sit in the sun with its pale promise of spring and spin the fine silk and wool as best I can. I have not mastered it, by any means, but the Lady and her companions do not seem to mind the slubs and uneven thread I produce, and I have come to enjoy the challenge of learning this new fiber as it slips and frustrates my best attempts.

I wait, for Master Elrond has sent word that my lord's Rangers attend upon him. There they sit in his chambers and take counsel this morning. It was all I could do to forebear from pacing about afore the Master's halls, for I longed to see those who are my kin. I have had no word from the Angle and its people, and would know how they fare.

I am not alone in my waiting. For Elenir, much enamored of the singing in the Hall of Fire the even afore, spent her morning lolling about on the couch in our small rooms, with her nursing blanket hanging from her head and shrieking. And so, in hopes of a little quiet, I wound brightly colored string between my fingers, teasing her into trapping her small hand in its knots at the flick of my thumbs. To Tithiniel and Ranger Boradan's laughter I bound my daughter in the winding of the thread. We gaped and marveled at the child's surprise and now Elenir clamors to be taught the trick of it.

Aye, indeed did the young Ranger find us. For, while his elders sat in council, he had been sent to bear both news and letters from the Angle. He came upon us smiling, his eyes alight at his chagrin. For, it being his first time in the Hidden Vale, he had gotten hopelessly lost amidst its winding paths and tall towers. A glimpse of his dark curls clipped short and the grey gear he wore, and I launched myself to my feet from where Tithiniel and I and my daughter sat upon the terrace ere our noon meal. He sprang up the short rise of steps, grinning, but then halted of a sudden. He had seemed caught on the verge of catching me up in an embrace and now uncertain. But so glad was I at his sudden appearance I cared not for the reserve that was expected of me and held my arms open to him.

"_Well met,_ my lady!" he said into my ear, holding his helm to the side so it would not hinder us.

"Aye! _Mae govannen, my lord's man,_" had said I, and taking his head between my palms, pulled him down for a greeting kiss upon his brow.

He emerged with a dusky glow upon his cheeks and a broad smile. The embrace was hard, not only for its warmth, but for the long hauberk of mail he wore beneath his grey woolen tabard and the sharp edge of the star at his shoulder. In the short time since I had seen him, he had grown even more and, were it not for his mother's coloring and how tightly shorn his head, he would full have the full look of his father.

For my daughter's ears, we spoke naught of threats visited upon our folk or the war to which he rode, but of the gossip of the Angle. The mistresses Pelara and Nesta were well. Though Boradan knew little of the matter in much depth, it seems her children had conspired with Pelara's father and had gathered up both her and her belongings and unloaded them afore the healers' door. Master Maurus, Elder no longer, has thus far refused to allow her back until the next hallmoot. So vexed was he with her, he claimed he may not take her back even after, should she not put some effort into resolving things with her lover. Elesinda has taken charge of Nesta's sickhouse, relieving the healer of much of the burden of it so her efforts might be best spent elsewhere. I must then wonder should she, too, have been in on the conspiracy. And to my surprise, 'twas not Boradan's father who now sat upon the Angle's Council, but his brother. This was not to Boradan's surprise, though, mayhap, prompted some dismay. For it seems Elder Muindir was much impressed with himself and eager to share his feelings on the matter with his Ranger brother, as well as one or two of the Angle's beauties.

"Aye, you have it," says Boradan. He has crouched down and sits back upon his heels to be of a height with his lord's daughter. "Now, pull it up."

The tip of her tongue poking from her lips and her nose wrinkling with her fingers' efforts, Elenir labors to wind the string about his hands. I have seen the girl set herself to puzzling out the path of small insects as they trundle through the grass as she squatted down amongst the flowers, or dropping bits of leaves upon a rill of water just to see where they go. Then, she cares for naught else and will occupy herself throughout much of the hour, but here, she grows impatient. It is a difficult task for little fingers, and I think she wishes more for the effect than the work required to achieve it.

"Nay, the other side," he says, wiggling his finger, repeating himself when she is slow to follow his instruction.

The string slips and she scowls at this and stamps her foot. "_I cannot!_"

"_Now, now, little one,_" he croons.

"I am not a _little one_," she says and frowns at him. I must stifle my laughter, for she has just recently taken to feeling her years, few though they may be.

"Aye, Lady Elenir," he says, bowing from where he crouches afore her, "_I beg thy pardon_. _Just a little more."_ For the lack of free fingers to point, he nods at the string and motions with his chin. "Take it up. Aye. Now pull it around."

He grins at the sudden brightening of her face, for she has wound the string in place. But then, instead of awaiting his next instructions, she takes up all the strings in fistfuls and yanks them tight against his hands.

"I have you!" she crows, and he pulls a great look of shock while Tithiniel laughs from where she sits, her head resting upon her hand as she watches.

I shake my head, smiling, for I know, by nightfall, no elf in Imladris will escape unscathed. She will test her trick upon them to see them startle and cry out in grand dismay at their capture. I can only hope we shall not be called upon to attend at the Great Hall, for she, without fear, shall attempt to bring even the greatest of elf-lords and ladies thus into submission.

Amid the gentle light of the morning I hear the tread of feet and turn. No elf's foot steps so heavily. My daughter falls silent and Boradan lets loose the bright web of string from where Elenir had wound it.

"Halbarad!" I cry and leap from my seat, for joy wells in my heart at the sight.

It is he and none other who leads them. His helm he carries tucked in the crook of his arm and a cloak of dark gray falls from his shoulders. I see not Haldren following behind, but Mathil and others I know not so well. Two dozen and more dressed in the gear of open war. The last of the Northland's Rangers that could be gathered so quickly, they go to seek my lord and meet him in whatever faraway battle he may find himself.

But Halbarad does not greet me in return. His face is grim as he signals his men to halt beyond hearing and hands Mathil his helm to hold. With not a word, he jerks his head at Ranger Boradan toward the company behind him. Such is the stifled rage upon his face, Boradan rises quickly to his feet, grabbing up his helm. He dares make no more of a farewell than a touch of his knuckles upon his brow and a soft, "My lady," ere he passes his lord's kin at the bottom of the stairs.

Halbarad then strides swiftly toward me despite the weight of mail and other somber gear. His face does not warm in welcome and now I know why. In his hand he clutches a tall staff on which the Lady's banner is tightly bound. It seems he is just come from her.

His feet are swift upon the stairs and he stands afore me, his face as the rumble of thunder.

"You know of this?" Halbarad demands, thrusting the staff between us.

No 'my lady,' no 'Lady Nienelen,' no embrace, or words of the Angle, but, instead, he towers o'er me and his voice rings of both wrath and disbelief.

With no word or look from me, Tithiniel, too, has risen and now speaks to my daughter.

"_Come now, little one,_" says she and, taking her hand, breaks the child's stare. "_It is time for somewhat to eat, do you not think?" _

"_Mamil!_" Elenir protests and tugs against her hand. "No! _I am not hungry."_

She breaks free and runs to my side. Her arms wrap tightly about my leg, her hands deep in my skirts, and stares wide-eyed up at this man who stands so threateningly o'er her mother. To the startled thump of my heart, it seems she does not recognize him who had sheltered and cared for her when I could not. 'Tis surely a cruelty that will do little to improve his temper.

"Nay, _lapsinya_, go with her," I say and gently unwind her hands despite her cries and stomping of her feet. "I shall be in directly after. Go!"

Reluctantly and with much coaxing, Elenir allows herself to be picked up by Tithiniel. I hear their voices behind me. Tithiniel promises savories and sweets she knows my daughter enjoys, while I face Halbarad and the storm of his anger, which has in no way abated. He grinds the foot of the staff into the stone of the stair and, though he had watched my daughter's departure with somewhat of pain, his eyes now burn into mine.

"Ranger Halbarad," I say, my voice grown cold for all I speak softly. "Though my lord may walk far upon distant lands, I am still the Lady of the Dúnedain. Do not forget yourself."

At the reproof, he drops his gaze, though his features are set as hard as the stone upon which we stand. "Forgive me, my lady," he says through clenched teeth.

"You ask do I know of this," I say, brushing the tips of my fingers upon the tightly bound fabric. "I do."

His mouth works as were it against a bitter taste, for there could be but one reason I had allowed this. "'Tis true, then. You have broken with your vows." He lets loose a bitter huff of breath. "I could not have thought it of you."

"Aye, I did. I did what I deemed best," I say, "for our lord and for the Dúnedain. Because my husband could not."

"You have the right in that!" he says and his eyes flash harsh upon me. "He would never ask you to withdraw your hand nor abandon you when he had given you his vow afore our folk."

"_Ai,_ Halbarad!" I say. How can I explain this to him so he shall understand? "No, he would not, not even should risk the ruin of all. To begin his reign with such a dishonorable deed would surely doom his House and he knows it well, as do I. But, still, were I to give it of my free will unasked, he may yet accept it. He cannot ask it of me, but it does not also follow that it cannot be offered as a gift freely given."

"Nay, my lady." He says, his look soured. "Aragorn would never have so little faith in you as you show him in this."

"What history of Kin-strife would you wish to write?" I demand, grown hot with his accusation. "Take we no lessons from the stories of our people's own past? Whose libraries do you wish to hold the chronicles of the rise of many distant kin of the old kings after the brief, bright reign of the son of Arathorn? For what should we hope? That we survive the assault of the Enemy only to fall upon each other as they struggle to set Elendil's winged crown upon their head?"

He shakes his head. "My lady, I know not what bitterness would drive you to such thoughts. Such is the way with all kings. Should you have no taste for it, mayhap you should have never given your consent at the first."

"Halbarad, you go to a war that is but one battle across the Ages between Gondor and Harad! There you will get but a brief taste of it." It does little to soften the hardness of his glare, but, though I have little heart for this, I must speak of it. "Whose faces do you think they are like to see when they look upon me, or my daughter? Oh, aye, with the force of his will and the good faith of those who will listen, I doubt not my lord shall open many hearts to his daughter and heir. But, he cannot reach all.

"The complaints of my preference for the wandering clans will be naught like what Elenir will face, for the children of the _Defiant of Harad_ are of our own folk of the Dúnedain. We have sat at each other's hearths, cared for each other's children, and stood in each other's defense. What think you of the lords of Gondor's coast after so many years of raids from the Corsairs? Think you they have broken bread together with them and know aught else of them but the face of suffering and pain? How quick then would they be to come to Elenir's aid and those loyal to her should she need it? Or would they be more inclined to listen to those who think ill of her? It would take just a spark, Halbarad. Aye, it comes for all kings at least the once. But it shall take but one man to rally the ancient enmity of the coasts as had the usurper Castamir, one crisis, one misstep, and the lands of Gondor will be ablaze."

"You are a fool should you think Aragorn has not thought of this. He would see it would not come to that!" Halbarad leans o'er me and shakes his head sharply. "He would be sure to have her married to a man worthy to be consort and king and well-established in her power - "

I take a breath and search his face, though I find naught of welcome there. "As I was?"

This, it seems brings him up short, for sure it is he recalls what was crudely written in mud upon my lord's hall.

"Was I not married to a man of the purest of Númenórean descents and clearest claim to kingship in both kingdoms north and south? And yet, it seems, to some, my presence in his bed sullied my lord and they wished only to rid the House of it."

He has fallen silent. He works his hand on the staff he carries as could he not find a grip upon it. Somewhat had flashed harsh upon his face and he looks aside to hide it.

"What think you of a man who would turn kin upon kin and grind the Dúnedain under his heels in his attempts to reach so high? Should she survive it, what will he then demand of her for the price of peace and the chance to protect her folk from our enemies who would spring upon us once we are weakened? Would you have such a man legitimize his claim to the throne and take my daughter to her marriage bed as his prize?"

I cannot tell should he be angry or disheartened, for his face is grim and he blinks swiftly as he stares fixedly at the door at my back.

"And how long after her marriage to such a man as would do this, then, until Elenir's death?

"Oh, the usurper will make a great show of grief and the city shall mourn for the untimely loss of the daughter of _The Son of Elendil_, taken from them by some unknown malady. Such a pity that he must then choose from amongst the purest daughters of Númenor to replace her."

For the tight hand about my throat, I can say no more for some time. He twists the foot of the pole he holds into the floor, where it grinds against the stone.

"Aye, Nienelen," he says and sighs, "Aragorn does not know the worst of it; how easily our folk were turned against the other. But I stood beside you and saw it, and witnessed what it took to bear it. You placed yourself in my hands despite my fears, once. Would you not then trust me?"

"I would," I say, "but only could you tell me you did not feel the need to warn Ranger Boradan of what he might face nor plan to take extra measures to protect him in the confusion of battle where you must go."

He says naught, and, by this, I know he has.

"Halbarad," I say, "should my husband wish me to stand by his side and shape the world of Men in his likeness, I would do it. It is a worthy effort and I wish him well in it."

So grim and discontented is his look, I cannot forebear from touching him. There high upon his breast sits pinned the many-rayed star I had attempted to capture in silk behind my lord's great chair. I must wonder at the care with which he rubbed its silver to a high sheen, for the metal catches upon the noon sun as were it a clear gem. It is this I touch, the tip of my fingers lingering upon its sharp edge.

"You have been my _Great Hound_, Halbarad," I say, "as faithful and valiant in my defense as I could have ever wished. I would put my own safety in your hands without reservation to achieve it."

And here I must halt and draw a breath to steady my voice ere I speak again.

"But I have lost one child to the attempt. I will not risk the sacrifice of another."

There. It is done. I have said aloud what has plagued my thoughts since my lord placed a crown of beech leaves upon my head.

After some time in which we are silent and do naught but stand in the other's shadow, he nods a little, swallowing and pressing his lips tight.

He then leans close and speaks low. "Will you not say his name?

"Just this once, my lady," he pleads, though he cannot look upon me. "There is naught but you and I here, but could you not say his name, just so I could hear it?"

It seems I must swallow against the tears that throttle my voice. For I had commanded Elesinda put away all the toys, all the clothing, and any tool or journal he had touched ere we had even returned from the barrows. And I have not said his name since the last I had called him by it.

"Edainion," I say and Halbarad's face is a painful sight at the sound. "I loved him. He was my son. And could I do aught to repair his loss, I would."

"Aye," he says and nods, clearing his throat ere he speaks. "So would I." Then it seems he can say naught more.

"Shall you take my lord this gift from the Lady of Rivendell?"

I know not whether he will say yeah or nay.

He sniffs and, in an abrupt gesture, swipes at his cheeks, remaining silent.

"Only should it be you that asks it of me," he says at last.

"I ask it."

After a breath, he nods sharply and turns away to where his men await.

I follow.

Ten years ago, that was, when first I met my lord's men and filled their cups, though it seems a lifetime and more.

Halbarad has not gone but a few steps when he halts and turns to me. His face is now more filled with grief than anger. He waits for me to come upon him with much the same stillness as when he watched me turn my back upon my father and the barrow in which we had laid him.

I know not what he sees, but I do not see the same man I saw then. In his eyes I see the man who courted hunger to feed me and mine, who carved small toys when away upon the Wild, who searched under moonlight for poppets dropped upon wide open fields, who placed his body between my daughter and sharp teeth and deadly whispers, and who stood behind me at the hallmoot, affirming my right to speak no matter his loathing of what I had to say. He it was who asked me to sacrifice all for the love of The Dúnadan, and, in saying 'yes' I followed only his own example.

"My lady," Halbarad says, having waited, it seems, in vain for words I have not said, for I find myself suddenly reluctant to say words of farewell, as should they be the last I shall ever say to him.

"Nienelen, I have no mother or sister to see me off into this war. My heart fears I will not return. Will you not give me farewell?"

At that, a sudden yearning to ride with him floods through me. Never afore have I longed for the skill of bearing arms, and yet I do so now, for then I might once again see my lord and stand yet again with he and his kinsman against the Nameless One.

"Aye, Ranger Halbarad, it is yours. You should have no need to ask for it."

A sudden impulse drives me to pull the cord from about my neck, fetching the small, worn purse that yet dangles there from beneath my shift. The blue has paled to a wan, thin color and I have replaced the cord many times o'er. I have so little to give him, but I can offer him this. It seems he recalls it, for his eyes widen at the sight.

"My thanks to you, Halbarad," say I, "for all the gifts you have given me."

"My lady –"

_"Please thee to take this_," I say, ignoring what I know would be his refusal should I allow him to speak. "I had not thought to find a welcome place among home and kin, and this gave me comfort. I have naught to give you in return to compare with the gifts you gave me, but I would that you have this token to carry with you."

I must take his hand from his side and there place the bit of cloth within his fingers, but he does not refuse it. The jaw that clenches hard upon itself will not allow him to speak, but he strikes his fist upon his breast and bows his thanks.

Taking his tightly shorn head between my hands, I pull him down, so I might press my lips to his brow. _"I know not where thee may travel or to what end, but I go with thee in my heart and shall watch over thee in my thoughts for the love thou hast given me and my children. As I loved my sister, so do I love thee, my lord's kinsman, my brother. No matter the paths thee follow, loyal Halbarad, may the Valar guide thee and watch thy steps as ever thou hast guarded mine. May they bring thee safely home."_

When I release him, Halbarad is slow to raise his head, and instead, grasps my hand and bows low over it.

And then he is gone, for he has turned and trod heavily down the stairs, placing the cord about his neck and tucking the purse beneath his hauberk as he goes. He touches briefly upon his breast when done, and then takes up his helm and gloves, and, with the banner he carries, signals the company's departure. They give me their salute and then there is naught for me to do but to watch them go.

So, it has begun. The Lady has chosen. Now it is in my lord's hands.

~oOo~


	70. Chapter 69

~ Chapter 69 ~

_"There were fifteen Chieftains, before the sixteenth and last was born, Aragorn II, who became again King of both Gondor and Arnor. 'Our King, we call him; and when he comes north to his house in Annúminas restored and stays for a while by Lake Evendim"_

LOTR: Appendix B: The Tale of Years

~oOo~

_~ TA 3019 12th day of Nénimë. _

_To Nienelen, wife to our lord Aragorn son of Arathorn, Lady of the Dúnedain, your most humble servant, Pelara, sends you these brief and swiftly written tidings. _

_Dearest my lady, forgive me my graceless writing in this letter, but the time is short and I have not enough ears for Elder Bachor and Ranger Halbarad and my father and this letter of the once. _

_Elder Bachor begs me tell you he has indeed spent much of his family's coin on grain and seed and other foodstuffs from the folk of Chetwood and Bree. Our folk returned with it just ere last winter's sowing of the fields. He warns that things there are not as they once were, now our lord's men have withdrawn their watch. It is not like we shall be welcome again or should it be wise we attempt it soon. But, I would have you know this at least: we shall have enough to last us through the winter and into the spring, should the Valar be so kind, should the hallmoot agree to continue the ration, and we not have much more unrest. _

_Ranger Halbarad has most like already given you the particulars, and my father reminds me not to say too much for fear of this letter being waylaid in its course to you, but we discovered those who burned our lords' house and nigh you and your daughter in it. They have come to the end they deserved. In the course of things, we have learned, too, of men eager to stir up old misgivings amongst our folk. 'Twas not hard to tell who they were, as they disappeared from the Angle as soon as we learned of them. They had mingled in with others come from along our south borders and made claim to a place in the Angle as true men of the Dúnedain, but now it comes to it, we could find none to vouch they'd seen or heard of them ere fleeing hither. Now we have news of the Lord Saruman's betrayal, I doubt not he'd sent them. I wish now we'd hung those men in the market square and left them to rot there as a warning to any who might think to listen to them as are spies sent among us. _

_Master Lorn no longer sits on the Council, and good riddance to him. He had taken most of the men in after Bachor disavowed them and some of the muck-spouts were under his oath to begin. Aye, he's been canny and laid low, biding his time with naught we could trace back to him. We have no evidence against him. Had I my way, I'd call a vote to exile him myself, had we a decent chance at it. But there are still a good number of our folk who remain loyal to him. Still, we'll see to it he'll not make a move unwatched, no matter how much he complains of it._

_They are not fools, the folk of the Angle. Should the traitor Saruman not already have taken notice of empty lands hereabouts and the absence of our lord's men within them, it is sure not to be long. Our folk speak of naught but fears of what more may come from the south of our lands. You have but to note who is absent from among our lord's men when you meet them in Rivendell to reason out what steps have been taken. _

_But be assured we are all well. Do not worry for us. We have lasted this long. We are determined we shall hold out a little longer and hope our lord successful in his ventures. _

_Your loving servant,_

_Pelara_

~oOo~

I had not expected to see the Lord of the Hidden Vale again and thought, surely, our time together was at an end and he would not wish me his guest. And indeed, not long after Halbarad left my company, Master Elrond sent word I was to attend upon him in all haste, forgoing all that might bring delay.

The last I had seen of him, he had taken my daughter upon his knee and, giving her somewhat to hold to keep her fingers busy, laid afore her a roll on which was writ the Lay of Leithian as it was told ere the bending of the world. I cannot fathom the age of the thing, but when he withdrew it from its coffer, the vellum was undimmed with time and its edges crisp. I had never seen such a thing, though I doubt not they took up much of my lord's time when he was a boy.

There he spread it open upon the table afore them. He did not read it to her, but they bent their dark heads o'er illuminations in inks of brilliant hues and leaf of gold and mithril. Such was the picture of them it pierced my heart; he with his long hair falling atimes as a curtain about her from where he bent his head, and my child, with her dark inquisitive eyes following his finger where it pointed. I know not which of the two took more delight in the exercise. For she exclaimed in wonder at what she saw drawn upon the page, and he smiled gently o'er her and atimes offered explanation of what puzzled her or pointed out somewhat she had not yet spied.

And so, I had thought, then, it would be to leave her behind. For I could not think the lady Arwen's father had much of goodwill left to spend upon me.

I cannot say my daughter sped our feet thither. Still, Lord Erestor made no comment on it, but clasped his hands afore him and ushered us down paths as had I no knowledge of the way.

There, sitting upon a bench near the table at which we had first spoken, I found him. Though he had pressed my visit with some urgency, he did not turn when I led Elenir there.

Behind him, his writing desk lay abandoned, and upon the low table lay a tray of tumblers and a light-smelling wine decanted into a tall glass pitcher, and where, no doubt, he had sat with his guests and counseled them as to their course. Now, though, his work abandoned behind him, he stood at the balustrade, looking out upon the terrace and garden below his feet, and his hands held naught in them. There, his daughter sat with her brothers. For the Lord of Imladris' sons were to go riding to war with the last of the Rangers of the Northlands and they had come to say their farewells.

Sweet her voice rises amidst the thunder of the river and the high twittering of the swifts. I could not recall a time I had heard it. Her brothers look upon her as were they seeing the dawn of the spring sun after a long and drear winter. From the look upon her father's face, it seems he had not heard her for some years, himself.

The Lord of Imladris' daughter was singing, and he wept for it.

Elenir is much used to the time we spend in his library, and when I release her to the floor, she goes direct to the basket of toys and pulls it from beneath the table, with little thought for us, her mother or her tutor either. Sure it is he knows we have come, though he makes no sign of it. And so I sit at the table and await his will.

"I welcome my daughter's counsel," he says without turning, once the song is at its end. "I had thought, mayhap, your friendship had reawakened somewhat in her. For she has shared her thoughts more oft of late.

"I thought it admirable," he goes on. "Despite it all, she had found purpose and wished to preserve hope for her people."

Laughter bursts from below. The day is fair and warm for late winter. Only now does the sun begun his westward path and lights gold upon the bare branches of the trees and glimmers in the moving water.

"But now this…" he says and falls silent.

We listen awhile to the laughter and calls from his children below. It seems the Lady of Imladris has lifted the tuning key to her brother's harp and does her best to keep it away from him. She threatens to throw it to the water but when her brother would grab it, they toss it from sibling to sibling with the third chasing after them through the small, private garden below.

"I knew her grieved and angered," he says, "but had not known her so restive. But, it seems, these last few years have had much to teach us we had not known afore. Indeed, mayhap she knew it not herself until now, when the choice was finally put to her."

_Ai!_ He can be in no doubt of the source of his daughter's change of heart, and I can only think I have damaged my case for his folk's aid beyond repair.

The calls and laughter have softened some. The Lady and her brothers have come to an end to their merrymaking and make their way back to the terrace, leading each other by the hand.

In the quiet that falls, he releases a long breath ere moving. And then he has turned away from the balustrade and gathers his robes about him to resume his seat at the table, though he has yet to look upon me.

"When first I had you summoned, I confess I was angry," he says and, though I search, I can see little of vexation upon his face now, turned away from me as he is. Instead, I find mostly a weary sort of solemnity.

"Had you been the one to convince my daughter such a thing was possible, that Aragorn might be free to beg her forgiveness and renew their vows, it was on you to either dissuade her from making the offer, or, should you not, then find means to remove yourself from my home. Such had I full intended to put to you."

My fingers have been drawn to the fur within the sleeve of my coat, where I have been plucking at it. It takes some effort to still them. "What do you wish now?"

"I am too greatly torn to be certain," he says and closes his eyes for moment, as were he searching his own heart. When he opens them, it is to no greater sharpness of gaze. "My own forefather locked his daughter in a living tower to prevent such a thing as my daughter has asked of me."

_Ai! _ Surely it would not come to such a thing as that!

"Should I have read the tale aright," I venture softly, "that did not turn out well for him."

He makes a quiet sound and I think it not in disagreement. "Neither did his granting her what she wished," he says, "but I would not be here to tell you of it had he not."

With this, he settles more deeply against the back of his chair, his hands coming to rest in his lap.

"Your kin shall leave at nightfall, with my sons. I have until then to decide."

Somewhat scrapes sharp against the floor behind us and catches my eye when I turn to it. Elenir has drawn brightly painted blocks from her basket and now sits upon the floor in their midst. She has taken of late to sorting them into the array of the colors. Today, she has selected the blues and started with them.

"When you came to your decision, Lady Nienelen," I hear beside me, "Was there aught in which you found comfort?"

Lord Elrond has turned to me as I watched my daughter. There his face is grave and seems, of the first, deeply carven with the years.

What to say to a lord among the Eldar to whom my own years are but a pittance, and that quickly spent?

"I have known of my lord's love for your daughter since first I married him," I begin, choosing my words with care.

"That does not give me comfort, Nienelen," he says, his brows rising, and indeed, I have touched upon the very heart of his concerns. "It is not his love that is in question, but what weight he gives it and the sacrifices he asks of those who bind themselves to him. You, he has asked much of. So much, indeed, in all our discussions I have not dared challenge your decision to reject him."

"And yet," I go on o'er the beating of my heart in my throat, "to honor the vow he had given me and the bond we had built o'er our time together, he offered to set aside his claim upon the throne of Gondor should I ask it of him. All he had worked and suffered for, should I have begged it from him, he would have sacrificed much more easily than to set me aside, even though it was I who demanded it of him. I knew asking would not be enough and I must take as extreme measures as I had available to me to force his hand."

"Yet you did not ask him to set aside his claim," he says, his look pointed.

"Not for lack of faith, Lord Elrond," I say, "but for trust that he would, and would come, over time, to regret it."

This he considers, though I cannot tell should he take me at my word or no.

"He would never blame me for it," I go on, "just as he attempted to protect me from the pain of wondering had it been me who changed his course when he gave up hope of ascending to a seat in Gondor when his own folk of the North needed him so. But should you leave, Master Elrond, and the North have no more allies on which to depend, the years of struggle against the inevitable would weigh heavily upon us both. And I would have lost him just the same.

"I lost him the moment the Steward of Gondor sent his son to you on the thin hopes of a dream."

He makes a small sound, as had he not considered this and now must. For he had been there to see it, that moment when our fates turned and my lord knew himself called South by greater forces than either steward or mentor or his own will.

"And should she fail to bear him a male heir, what then?" he asks. "Would she struggle with the same forces that have worked upon you?"

"Let us not pretend that any daughter of hers would bear the same risk as mine."

At this comes the same brief sound from him. "No, mayhap not." His chair creaks softly as he resettles to it.

Elenir has dragged the basket of chalk from the low shelf on which it was kept. She searches through it, singing to herself in fragments of song I do not know. But then, with a sharp flash of recognition, it comes to me. For the Lady had been singing the same tune just moments afore.

"I can foresee little, but my heart but tells me our fates are yet entwined. Indeed I have felt restless between our talks and only comforted when next we sit here together. I can only rest when I have done all I can to further your skills in the short time we shall have." He shakes his head. "And I could not tell you why even should you ask, but that my heart tells me I shall regret it should I not." His hand runs across the dark silk upon his knee, as would the feel of it give himself comfort. Still, he sighs and seems no lighter of mood.

"We have little precedent among our kind of this thing. Those avowed to each other may grow estranged and distance come between them, and it is a grief to us. Their hearts do not then tend to that of another's. It happened but the once and it brought us great sorrow after."

"Then mayhap, the Lady Arwen and I should continue to ensure we build close ties of mutual regard and benefit, rather than allow fear to estrange our children and their father, and breed insecurity amongst them."

"And after you are gone?"

"I have no more control over that than do you, Lord Elrond."

Scooting back upon the floor, Elenir drags a stone of white chalk upon the dark slate of the floor in long swathes of color. I watch her for a little ere speaking again, softening my words as much as I am able.

"You once gave me counsel I should not look too far ahead for griefs that may not be. What do you think of it now?"

This draws a laugh from him, short and sharp though it may be.

"I do not know what shall come," I say, "but I can but tell you this; your daughter will not be friendless, no matter what awaits her."

With this, his eyes pierce me with a keen light, and I allow it without faltering. Mayhap what he sees brings him some comfort, for his face softens some and he nods.

They have taken up singing again below us upon the terrace, this time all three. With the plucking of the harp strings come their voices low and sweet, there to mingle with the twittering of the swallows and my daughter's humming as her chalk scrapes upon the floor.

I think the Lord Imladris already deeply in grief at the sounds, for his look has grown weary.

"I have worn myself with worry as to what I shall say to my wife when again we meet. But, I think, now, it will be she who shall understand my dilemma far better than I," he says, his voice low.

"I think, mayhap, I have already lost her, my daughter," he goes on, "no matter should I forbid her staying or allow it. I have naught I can do but decide how much I may have of her ere she is gone, and how much of what she suffers is of my making."

I do not think the Lord of the Hidden Vale could have said aught else that would have pierced our hearts more cruelly. I do not know who is more taken in surprise, he or I, but I find I have taken his hand from where it lies upon his knee, and he has returned my grip upon him.

He does not speak, nor do I, and I am unsure what else is left to say.

I think my daughter has caught our mood, for she has come upon us, slipping between the Master's knees and the low table. There she leans upon his thigh and stares wordlessly upon his face.

When Master Elrond pulls his hand from mine, it is then to loosely cup my daughter's face between his palms. He smiles on her in the midst of his tears. She does not speak, though clearly she had sought him out for somewhat. She looks upon him with uncertainty, her gaze flitting from his face to the piece of chalk clutched in her hand where the nail of her finger digs into its tip. Decided, of a sudden then, by dint of handfuls of his robe and tunic, she climbs upon his lap and leans into his breast.

In the way of the very young, she knows not the source of his distress, but, her face solemn, she seeks his comfort for the pain it prompts in her. There, he, in turn, wraps his arms about her and holds her close.

"My thanks to thee, Nienelen, for bringing her here," he says o'er her head, after some moments in which he does naught more than revel in the warmth of her small embrace and the innocence with which she offers it. "I know you thought but to soften my anger, but, mayhap, I needed the reminder.

"It is time," he says, "and I should give greater thought to what I shall leave behind."

He does not wait for my reply, but turns his face to my daughter.

"_Hast thou been practicing thy letters?_" he asks, and she nods, brightening. This, at least, she understands.

"_I can write my name, now!_" she says and straightens from where she leans against his breast, but, with a touch, he stills her attempts to light to the floor and show him even now.

"_Not today, nor upon the morrow, I think,"_ says he, peering down at her face, _"but shall I see thee the day after? And then wilt thou show me what thou hast learnt?_"

She nods eagerly, and, with no thought for the gravity of the counsels of the Mighty, she does what her heart compels of her. Tangling her hands about his neck, she urges him to lean down to her so she might press a kiss upon his ear.

_"Go with thy mother, little one,_" he says, smiling upon her as he untangles small hands and chalk from his hair and lets her slip from his lap to the floor.

"Treasure what time you have with her, Nienelen. No matter what your course, it will never be enough," he says, running a thumb upon Elenir's cheek where he has laid his hand ere he rises.

"You and your daughter are welcome to stay, Lady Nienelen. But your disagreements with Aragorn are your own and I shall have no part in them. I will not hinder your plans," he says solemnly ere he takes his leave of us, "but neither will I aid them. I will not send my folk to take you and your daughter from here, nor countenance their departure with you should you ask it of them. Should you choose of your own will to go, those of your own folk who would take you home would be welcomed here. Should it come to it, and a lone woman and child use the cover of night to flee my House and should men of the Angle chance upon them outside the bounds of Imladris, I will neither prevent it nor reveal it to any who have been sent to escort them where they are unwilling to go. Will you abide by this?"

I nod, grateful for this, at the least. "And of the needs of the Dúnedain of the North?"

Laughter bursts upon us from below. Done with their song, one of the brothers strode upon the greensward afore his siblings, telling some tale that involved much of movement and gesture and miming of roles. He must tell it well, for his eyes twinkle merrily and his brother and sister laugh and call out to him.

The Lord of the Hidden Vale considers me for some time as we listen.

"It is not a thing to be decided in the heat of strong feelings. I will need some time ere we speak of it again."

Tripping lightly down the stairs that spiral to the courtyard below, their father comes upon them, brothers and sister. There they greeted him gladly and he took each in turn, clasping them upon the shoulders and kissing each cheek. He then took the harp from his elder son where he had been idly plucking upon the strings, saying, "_Come, give me that ere thou dost thyself a harm with it._" His eyes bright for their laughter, he then sat among them and played upon it, joining them in their singing.

~oOo~


	71. Chapter 70

~ Chapter 70 ~

_Aragorn, Arathorn's son, Lord of the Dúnedain, listen to me! A great doom awaits you, either to rise above the height of all your fathers since the days of Elendil, or to fall into darkness with all that is left of your kin. Many years of trial lie before you. You shall neither have wife, nor bind any woman to you in troth, until your time comes and you are found worthy of it._

LOTR: Appendix A: Here Follows a Part of the Tale of Aragorn and Arwen

~oOo~

_TA 3019, this 10th day of Gwirith._

_To Nienelen, Híril of the House of our lord Aragorn son of Arathorn, newly made Elessar Elfstone, Lord of the Dúnedain of the Northlands, and King of Gondor, Lady of the Dúnedain, your servant, Bachor, son of Haradion, sends greetings and tidings both glad and somber._

_I have had word that you, your husband, and your daughter Elenir are well. For this I rejoice!_

_I bring news! The Angle survives, my lady, though we are sadly diminished in folk and field. Curse the traitor Saruman and his men! In the last, what remained of our lord's men in the North returned to the Angle under Ranger Haldren's command. There they flew afore the rumor of assault from the south. We took then to the earthenwork defenses, beat our livestock into scattering into the woods, and burned all else about so our enemy would have no relief. Within it we endured the siege put upon us first by the Wildmen of Dunland. Through our hours of vigil and practice were we able to hold out against fire. For they loosed burning darts upon us as a rain of stars. At Master Orthoron's urging, we lay deep blankets of green flax upon what structures we had within the walls so they might be slow to catch. Master Herdir deserves every praise you bestowed upon him, for the well he dug was deep and generous with its waters. Were that the taunts and cruel promises flung at us from about the earthenworks as easy to quell. I will not say we did not despair. For the nights were long and we thought ourselves very alone. _

_But it was not so, for, of a night, we debated our course and thought it best to then take to the tunnelworks you had bid us dig and from there flee through the woods to our brethren among the wandering clans in the hills, though we were sure to lose many folk along the way. For our foes had been joined by goblin-men of Isengard. It seems they knew more of the craft of war and dug tunnels to the foot of the palisades to avoid our arrows and the heated sand we poured upon them. Though we had long ago closed in and reinforced the gate, the walls would only last so long against their assault. We thought then, it would have been better for them to find us gone, than to pin our backs against our own refuge. _

_But it was not to be, for the men we sent to scout out the opening into the woods did not return. Muindir and I with several others crawled through the tunnelworks only to find us betrayed. Do not fear, I am bound to my bed but shall leave it hale and whole once healed, or so Mistress Nesta claims. I do not wish to speak of it in much detail, for still I awake atimes to dreams of darkness, the smell of burning pitch, and the thrust of a knife in that small, closed place. But, together, we blocked the way with their bodies and dragged Lorn back within the palisades to face the folk he had betrayed. We got little from him no matter his claims of regret, for the fear of Saruman's men was heavy on him. We knew naught, then, what to do with him. Ranger Haldren harbored no such doubts and, calling for the men to be rallied and the tunnels to be collapsed, he thrust a knife into the man's neck in the midst of the outcry. We had no choice then but to throw the weight of our folk onto our foes and hope some of our people might scatter and flee in the confusion. _

_'Twas then a great clamor arose from about the pale. We knew not what struck fear in our enemies but knew our chance would be fleeting. Then did Elder Tanaes rally those armed among us to issue forth from the palisades down ropes and ladders, and the folk to loose arrows and throw stones upon our enemies from its height to give them cover. There we drove our enemy from about the defenses and into the dark, striking them down as they fled. _

_With the dawn, we emerged to find them gone. Swept aside and scattered our enemy was in the night, as by a great wind that scoured the earth clean of them. In their wake they left their mates to rot where they fell. There, too, we found, to our wonderment, the spent arrows of the elves of the Hidden Vale. 'Twas then the company of the Eldar folk emerged from behind the cover of the brake of trees to greet us. It seems we had found the source of our enemy's confusion and had driven them into their arms. _

_Ai! My lady! 'Tis a sight I will not long forget! I thought ourselves as the first Men to wander west, awakened by the singing of lord of Nargothrond. One moment we thought naught about us but the boles of trees and the mist that arises from the cold spring ground and the next, without sound, found ourselves surrounded by a folk equally both fell and fair. It seemed none dared break the silence ere their captain stepped from amongst them. He wore a helm of dark metal upon his head, so that when he removed it, hair as gold as summer wheat tumbled from it. We knew him then. He laughed at our shock and cried out to us, "Mae Govannen! Well met, indeed, men of the Dúnedain. It seems we have the honor of crushing our foes between us yet again!" _

_Elder Tanaes, as you can imagine, would leave it to none other to lead the last defense of the Angle. And though he survived the night, he did not linger long after. I can think only the man pressed himself to his body's limit and only then, once he knew us safe, allowed it to fail him. _

_Elder Pelara is well, and Mistress Nesta gains strength daily. After all this time, she finally fell ill herself. Pelara was half-mad with grief for it. But, the worst is past, and even her father has taken to smiling more oft. Young Lothel visits time and again, for she conveys many of our missives and messages back and forth. She insists I convey to you her desire to see Elenir again and to include the buttercup flower I have pressed within. I hope it shall survive the journey. _

_Matilde is well, as are her sons, and my brother. She sends her wishes for your health and swift return. I have great hopes that they, and our folk, shall thrive, despite our losses. _

_I have not the words but hope you can find some that are fitting to convey the depth of our gratitude to the Lord and folk of Imladris for their intervention. For their generosity, we lived through that fateful night and shall have provisions enough to last to the spring harvest. We are in luck, my lady, for we had just sown the spring fields and, though we lost parts to the feet of our enemy tramping through them, for the most they look to produce more than we have seen in several years. The sun blesses us within clear skies, no longer hiding his warmth behind that accursed pall of clouds from the mountains of Angmar. I had given no credit to Master Herdir's claims of an ill will that came with the weather, but now we know the wizard Saruman a traitor and the sun shines upon us after his fall from power, I am less certain._

_Word spreads quickly of our lord and his companion's efforts in lands far from that of his birth and your own efforts to beg for our aid afore the Mighty of the Eldar. Much is clear that was not afore. There shall be much work to do, but all is in readiness to do it, my lady. I doubt not you are eager to join your husband, but I beg you will return to us ere you travel south to take up your crown as his queen. I beg you do not forget your people of the North! I have kept to our bargain and our kin but await your word. _

_Believe me to be your most loyal servant and brother, my lady. I hope this letter speeds your travels. We have set a watch for you at the boundary just beyond the river and hope to see you with no more delay than the fortnight it takes you to journey hither. And so, I do not say farewell, but hope to speak to you in person when next we exchange greetings. _

_~ Bachor_

~oOo~

Such a small thing it is I have in my hands, but it weighs nigh more than my heart can bear. I have had news! _Ai! _ And 'tis all the more dear for the hand in which it was written. My fingers shook so upon opening the parchment at the first I could not read what was writ there, but lit upon one word and then another, and for the roaring of my blood within my ears could make no sense of what its author was attempting to convey.

A strange sound comes to my ears and only now know that I am moaning between the fingers pressed to my lips.

"Nienelen!" calls her voice.

It rings in this odd space, filled with the sound of water burbling along stone-lined canals and the beating of spring rain upon the glass of the high roof far overhead. Lush and green within and hot with the piped water from the common baths watering the soil, I sit amongst the vines of melons and tubers, aloe plants, and strange trees grown from seeds and cuttings brought to this place by my forebears.

Her steps falter upon finding me, but I cannot see her for the wavering of light and color that fills my eyes. And then I am surrounded in the press of arms wrapped about me tightly, the softness of her breast against me, and the sweet smell of flowering vines.

"Hush, hush," she says and then has pulled away. "What is it?" she begs, her face anxious and eyes peering at me.

But I have lost all power of speech and can only shove the letter into her hands as I attempt to draw a clear breath. She looks to me, uncertain, I think, should she have permission to read it.

"Oh!" she exclaims and, glancing up from the parchment, laughs high and bright. "But it is good news! Is it not?"

"Aye, it is," I say, my voice shaking and tears threatening again to spill.

At this, she grabs me up and laughs close in my ear, rocking us where we sit. "Oh," she says, "I had come to tell you they were returned, but I was delayed."

I clutch upon her and squeeze her tight in exchange. "_Ai,_ Arwen, how can I ever repay what you have done?"

"What I have done?" she says, laughing. "Nay, lady, do not paint me in such an unselfish light. What better means have we of ensuring our people's safety than the preservation of their allies. It serves us poorly should my father's House be surrounded with either wastes or, worse yet, our enemies. Clever of you, lady, to set your daughter upon Lord Glorfindel more oft. Did I not tell you? Once it was said in his voice, the rest of the Council followed."

A laugh bursts from me through my tears at this, for the Lady has endured many, long hours of conference with the lord of the House of the Golden Flower. Of all the elf-lords of her father's house, he had the most reason for concern when it became known she had extended her forgiveness and invitation to a man who already had a wife.

"Ah! His face when I told him the tale of the attack of weres upon your pastures when she was but an infant! I have seldom seen his face so grim. Unfair of me, I know, but he has taken to calling you the _Huntress of Weres_, so mayhap it is not so bad. You must forgive me, but I may have implied you defended not only daughter but also husband and Lord of the Dúnedain with naught but a willow switch."

"That is far from the truth, and you know it," I say, sniffing and wiping at my eyes o'er her shoulder.

"It will hardly damage Aragorn's reputation and shall only add to yours," she protests.

"Nay, you forgot. I had a spindle, as well."

She laughs loud and long at this and her voice echoes high in the rafters of metal and glass.

"Oh, Nienelen!" she says and pulls away. "We must celebrate, aye? I have been to the kitchens and have just the thing. They will wheel the lemon trees into the garden upon the morrow, should the rain cease. They are in bloom and it will be our last chance among them."

~oOo~

I would think this the perfect place to put my mind to the task of reading a treatise this dense with names and dates and thoughts expressed in words for which I have little reference. And yet, 'tis not the first of such I have been set to, and 'tis not that which rankles. For all others I have devoured eagerly and spent much thought upon, wondering at the minds and situations of those long gone ere the bending of the world and how they might fit with what we find in this Age. Even should I have not had the chance to speak of them with the Master of the library from which they came, they would have been reward in and of themselves. But this one! Och! I cannot bear it and cannot yet think why.

Indeed, still weighted with their bright fruit, the lemon trees have bloomed. Their sweet scent hangs heavy upon the air about us in the heat and damp trapped within glass. Here I sit upon a bench and pluck at the line of cloth about my neck, wishing for naught more than a cool breeze while we listen to the rain beating against the glass high o'erhead and the quiet about us.

And I would be reading, were not the Lady of Rivendell bored and occupying her time with tossing a lemon fruit into the air beside me from where she lies upon the blanket stretched at my feet. Up it comes and catches my eye as it passes and I, having lost my place among the words afore me, must find it again.

We had been eating and discussing yields of dates, figs, and lemons in the groves found here under glass, and that of mushrooms cultivated and stored in caverns carved into the foot of the mountain, all of which the Lady was able to recite without referring to journal or notes. It seems, now much of the folk of Rivendell gone, they had more than they would need and should they do naught with it, it threatened to spoil. The problem at hand, however, was how to arrange its transport and what goods or services could possibly be offered in trade from the Angle.

We have spent much of the winter and the following spring together, the Lady of Imladris and I, and, as comes to pass with many women, we came to know the other through the shared work of our hands. Oft have I accompanied her on her duties as the Lady of the House, the days passing swiftly. Together, we visit their pantries, kitchens, craftsmen, and the folk who raise crops upon the land in ways strange to Men. And in each, she asks for my thoughts and, when I speak of them, listens with an attentive care to all that is similar and foreign among our folk.

She is eager, I think, to learn as much of the ways of Men as I am to teach them. For all the beauty of this place, I miss my people and my heart aches for them. I speak of them, less willingly at first, and then with gratitude to find such a pleased and attentive ear. Today's considerations have been just one of a much longer conversation. For we have talked long of our respective peoples and their need for trade and defense and how best to introduce one to the other.

At the first, our time together excited much comment. Her people are gracious and do not press or do aught but welcome my presence with their lord's daughter, but I think they knew not what to make of us. And yet, in all our errands in her father's house, her folk find it nigh impossible to resist the Lady's will, for she insists with such good and gentle humor, it seems ungracious to refuse.

The leather binding flaps closed upon the book with a violence I cannot bring myself to regret. I have closed it and placed it to my lap. Should I not be able to read much of it, mayhap it would make a better fan. But, it did little to stir the air. _Ai! _ Of all the works Master Elrond had set me to mastering, I regretted the abuse of this leather and parchment the least.

Up comes the lemon yet again, but this time I snatch it away mid-air.

"Am I disturbing you?" comes the question.

I recognize that tone and, indeed, when I turn my look upon the Lady, she is smiling sweetly up at me from where she lies with her dark hair spread beneath her and lemon flowers caught up in the strands from where she had lain upon them.

"Tis a test, that book." She prods at the bound work lying in my lap.

"Of what?" I ask, "my attention or my temper?" I set it aside upon the bench ere it can slip from my lap. Should it be useless as either fan or diversion, I would much rather attend to the lemon in my hands.

"Tis a rather strange recitation of selective facts, do you not think?" she asks.

"Verily!" I say. "He seems to omit the most curious things."

She hums in agreement. "'_Dior the Fair sprung from Thingol_' indeed! As were Rîndir thought he a bud grafted upon a fruit tree and grown there and there were naught of woman to be found in the process. My brother was very fond of quoting bits of Rîndir's work at me over the morning's meal ere I was fully awake and in charge of my temper."

"Nor does he discuss much of how the populations of Beleriand sustained themselves throughout so many seasons of war."

"They do seem a very odd thing to omit when assessing the effects of various theories of governance, do they not?" she asks. "I agree; most curious. I must wonder how Rîndir thought they would find aught of folk and hearth to return to should they have neglected what is needed for their care and sustenance. Men at war cannot eat their swords nor their gear, and many a battle has been won but the war lost for the lack of aught to put in their soldier's bellies."

Tart and clear is the lemon's scent when I press it to my nose and breathe deep and, of a sudden, it is as were I sitting at my father's table, cutting away thin bits of the hard skin for my aunt's cooking, so strong is the smell and the memories it evokes. My father had had a lemon tree when I was young that we kept in a bucket in the garden and hauled indoors of the winter, but, try though I might to remember it, I cannot recall its fate.

"Aye, well, Rîndir was rather fond of a distilled version of _miruvor_. Its use is frowned upon now, but 'twas a surprisingly popular practice among some of the Great of that time and he was much in their company. Mayhap 'twas that which sustained him."

"That," I say, my attention now full on her, "that might explain a rather lot."

"Indeed it might, not the least men who sit about the campfires of the Mighty while at war and think they have learned all that needs knowing about the world."

Curious then that I have been set to reading such a work.

"Do you count your father among them?" ask I.

"No," she says quickly, frowning. "While my father is very welcoming of my opinions on matters and gives them weight, he does not always welcome my 'interference.' And it may not have occurred to him to look to Rîndir's faults when my mother and I complained we detested him so, but I think he set it afore you because he wishes to know more."

I laugh. "And so you wish me to teach it to him?"

"Should you be so kind." And there again comes that sweet smile turned upon me. "He seldom has the tutoring of women, and it might be of a good for him to hear similar sounds of outrage coming from more than just my mother and I – daughters to _Nerwen,_ the 'manly maiden,' as we are."

_Ai,_ well. I mind it not. Indeed, how many can say they have had the chance of sharpening their wits against one of the greatest minds of the Age?

"Prepare a list of questions challenging the omissions and implications of the lack ere you speak to him on it. And do not let up when you present them," she goes on, pointing her finger at me in emphasis. "This tends to keep him to a defensive posture."

"I shall keep that in mind." I drop the lemon into her waiting hands, where she catches it easily and turns it about between her fingers as she speaks.

"Do!" she says. "Indeed, you are like to have a much better chance at expanding his thoughts on the matter than his daughter did. He is too familiar with and had too much of a hand in the shaping of my mind, no matter my time listening to my grandmother's thoughts. And your mind is far too sharp, and you have had far too much experience on which to draw to be gainsaid."

She sets the lemon aside in the grass about us. "But above all, avoid flattery. He detests it."

"_Ai!_ Come down!" she cries and tugs at my skirt. "We are to be resting from our labors, not speaking of dullards who write treatises of naught more than they can see beyond their noses. And I weary of craning my neck to see you."

When I settle beside her on the blanket, she does naught more than then close her eyes and breathe deep. Indeed the air is sweet and the sound of water o'erhead and in the canals about us a comfort, but it is hot here where the ground is warm and the air is heavy with the rain. I cannot get comfortable for long and am restless.

"We should speak of what comes next," I say, staring up at the leaves overhead and watching the water stream in rivulets down the glass.

This is greeted with a groan.

"Is there a fundamental inability to celebrate or take rest among Men?"

At that I must laugh, for since I have come to know her better, I have seen the Lady as merry and without care as the Silvan folk drunk on distilled pine liquor, 'tis true, but also lofty and cold with the wrath of her forebears among the Noldor upon her. 'Twas a sight I am not like to soon forget.

But, still, we have yet to speak of things that are most near our hearts and most like to cause the other pain. And I think she knows it, for each waits for the other to begin.

"Aye, we should," she says at last. She has opened her eyes and rubs at her temple with the tips of her fingers, "but it means soon you shall be leaving, and I confess I do not like the thought much."

At the sudden pang within my own heart, I come to know that mayhap there was more to the dread of speaking of this than I had known. I think I shall greatly miss the Lady's company when it comes time to part.

When I turn to look upon her, she is there, the light that I had once only seen in glimmer gentle about her, and her skin aglow with the heat.

"You would have a better chance of companions of like mind in ElvenHome, would you not?" I ask, "should it come to that."

"Aye, I would, not the least being my own mother," she says and for a long moment she is quiet. "They have sailed across the sea and await me there."

And I think, mayhap, I should not have spoken and reminded her of it, for the light about her fades and her face has fallen grim.

But," she says, recalling herself and taking my hand and drawing it to the crook of her arm where she clasps it, "they will not be you, dearest, loveliest Nienelen."

So shocked am I at such a declaration, a snort of laughter bursts from me.

"I cannot imagine how you ever discovered your father so averse to flattery," I say when she laughs at the look upon my face.

"I say naught that is not true," she protests.

And though I do not believe it nor thinks she does either, I will not press it. For 'tis not the first I have caught her out in a flight from pain into merriment. Mayhap, one day, beyond the Circles of the World, I shall have hope of seeing mother and father, and aunt, and sister, but, should she stay, the Lady shall not. And I have naught else to soothe her heart should she not wish to flee from its pain or hide it from me.

"Aye, I will be but one of many such flowers in a vast kingly garden of glass," she says, releasing my hand to gesture about us to the glass overhead. "My brothers would tell you I have too much of my grandmother in me."

She returns her hand to mine, running the pad of her finger along the edge of my nails where her touch tickles.

"And there shall be little chance of role and purpose as there is here," she says. "Too many princes of intellect and ambition, I should think. And very little left of great import to be done." She laughs of a sudden, startled by her own thoughts. "Listen to me! Mayhap I am more Mortal than I thought.

"In truth, Nienelen, I am unsure I knew my own mind until the choice was taken from me and only then knew the full range of what I grieved as lost. _Ai! _ Even she, Galadriel of the Golden Wood, she alone with such power and position as is unknown among the women of our kind, expects diminishment should the Valar allow her return. She has made her choice and rejected the power to prevent it. And now I must make mine."

She sighs and closes her eyes for a moment. "Aye, it is time. We should speak of what may be to come and plan for it."

She turns upon her side to face me, propping her head upon the crook of her arm and refusing to release my hand, her grip light and fingers cool upon mine. Her eyes light upon mine. "Ask me what you will."

_Ai! _ What to ask? 'Tis not that I have too few questions. I have far too many, and they crowd in my throat and demand to be let loose.

"What is it you wish?" I ask, turning upon my side to see her better and squeezing her hand. "I have given you my reasons for what I have done. But you have never said. What shall you do, should he beg you your forgiveness and ask to renew your vows?"

She releases my hand to take up a curl of my hair from where it has fallen between us and coils it about her finger, smoothing its strands for a little ere she speaks.

"I think it shall depend upon the manner of his farewell to you and his provisions for his daughter," she says. "I do not think I could bind myself to a man who did not truly respect the woman he chose and honor it even in such an act as setting her aside. I hope the man I knew never capable of less. For, once he had committed himself to you, he would have given his heart in full, and the man I knew would never be capable of forgetting it.

"Should he not take measures to ensure his daughter has the benefit of a father and treat you well, then he is much changed, and I would be better served to choose somewhat else, do you not think?"

"Aye," I say, though the thought of my lord choosing yet another woman, one I do not know and have no affection for pierces at my heart. So long had I known of my lord's love for her, he would seem a different man than the one I knew without it. And I am unsure what to make of my grief at the thought. For I will have lost him utterly and who he was and who he might become would become unknown to me. I do not think I could truly let him go to another should it not be her.

Her soft sound of dismay startles me. With a light touch she brushes her thumb upon my cheek and wipes at the tears that have fallen there.

"_Ai,_ Nienelen," she sighs, "once I pitied the Men of the North. It seemed their fate was a cruel one, to be promised _hope_ only to have it as swiftly stolen away from them. And yet, what manner of man would turn his back on his kin in their extremity and refuse to sacrifice his ambitions of throne and marriage for their preservation when all other choices would most like lead to their extinction? I do not think I could love a man who could do such a thing. Nor would, I deem, such a man deserve the faith of his people, nor the faith of any other folk. Nor mine.

"Mayhap fate was not so unkind to the Dúnedain as once I thought, when he chose you. They needed _hope_, and he needed you to give it to them, for I was not allowed the chance. And even had I, I am unsure it would have been for the best. And, mayhap, only then, in our sacrifice, he and I, was he made worthy."

Here she pauses, biting at her lip ere she speaks again.

"I have a thing to say I would have thought unnatural until this moment," she says. "Should that have been our fate, then, and for a cause greater than himself I was to be betrothed to a man who must break his vow to me and marry another." And here, 'tis her eyes that shine with tears and her voice falters, "I am comforted he chose you. For you are worthy of him and the folk of the Dúnedain in a way I do not think I could have been."

_Ai!_

And then, ere I know it, I am enveloped in warmth and the dark of her hair falling upon me. We bump chin and shoulder for the awkwardness of such an embrace from where we lie, and it sets the Lady to laughing.

"Come!" she says and withdraws. "'Tis my turn. I have answered your question. Indeed, more than the one, at the least.

She halts and her look grows uncertain, biting at her lip.

"What would ask?"

She considers me for a moment more ere speaking, and that with some hesitation.

"Surely you do not think he would send men to take you south by force?"

"No," I say, "he will do what he has always done."

"Aye, yes," she sighs.

At this she turns upon her back to stare upon the wrack of clouds moving swiftly across the sky.

No. No he would not. Why take such a risk when he needs this time to consolidate his power?

He will do as he has always done. Should he not take another to wife, he will leave me be, for a time. And while he waits, as patient and planful as he has always been, he will put all in place piece by piece until he is within reach all of what he wants. And when he moves, it will be when he deems the time ripe and he can seize his chance.

"What shall you do?" she asks, bringing a halt to my thoughts.

"I think it shall depend on what greets me when I return to the Angle."

She hums a little, considering, it seems, my options. "Power, position, and allies," she says, tapping one finger against the back of her other hand from where they rest upon her belly.

"Aye," I say. Those, should I remain the Lady of the Dúnedain while he waits, with some labor I may yet achieve, I think. "What I shall most lack is knowledge. He shall have the advantage of me, there."

"Indeed," she says, and then an odd look flashes upon her face and she turns again to face me. "Did you know, Lady Nienelen, I have heard a very strange rumor?"

I can think of naught to say, for 'tis clear she has somewhat she wishes me to know and wishes the pleasure of telling it to me.

"Very odd," she says, drawing a finger upon the blanket between us. "It seems the ice fishers of Forochel have knowledge of events far beyond their borders, despite how little dealings they have with any other folk."

Aye, well then. This is very interesting.

"I also hear," she goes on, "should you credit it, they have very large and very sturdy nets."

Aye, currents move, the ice shifts and flows and cracks. Who can tell what they might have found when they drag the depths of their waters during the summer thaws? Or what their divers had found in their quest for treasure amongst the wreckage caught in the deep.

I think she has read my thoughts easily upon my face and delights in it, for a bright smile breaks upon her face.

"Very interesting, these rumors," I say.

"Indeed they are," she says. "I am also given to understand they have good relations with the wandering clan of the _Randírim_ and have banded together atimes for their defense."

"So," I say, "should a man of this clan find his way to the icefields of the Lossoth, with somewhat in hand to trade…"

"Somewhat of land and access to fresh waters I would think."

"Aye, one of the lost seeing - "

"Nay, Lady Nienelen, let us be clear here," she says, wagging a finger at me and smiling. "'Tis a thing of no account, hardly worth the price you might have to offer for it. But, mayhap you might know of one who might have an interest in it."

"I might."

Indeed I do, and he might thoroughly enjoy the challenge of it.

"Even should you not need it to spy upon the lands about, sure it is that Aragorn will soon have the other stones in his possession, should he not already. 'Tis unnatural for him to be away from his daughter."

The lady falls silent at this and I stare at the sun breaking through the leaves of the lemon trees. The rain has stopped and now, for the heat, water rises in a mist and collects upon the glass to drip and strike leaf and grass atimes.

Aye, that would be good! In all I have asked of my lord, 'tis this I would regret the most, that my daughter would not grow to know her father.

I am unsure what grabbed upon my attention, whether it be the stillness of the Lady beside me, or that she has raised her hand to her face. But when I turn, it is to find her weeping and staring ahead. She has clutched her mouth to muffle the sounds, and I think is shamed that she cannot still them.

_Ai!_ My stomach turns upon itself at the shock of it. Oh, of course, what else would it bring to mind but the sundering of her own kin?

She is soft and smells of the lemon flowers in her hair. She allows my embrace and, indeed, leans her head against my brow. But she is restless and cannot settle for the prod of her distress. I can think only of the beauty of the lemon trees here beneath a cage of glass, but also the bitterness of their fruit.

"_Ai!_" she says, panic rising in her voice as she pulls away to sitting, "it is hot in here, is not? And so closed."

She fans her hands afore her face, rocking a little there as she struggles to breathe. "So closed."

For want of aught else to do I rise from the blanket we share, bending to take up a cloth from the basket with me as I go. I have dampened it in one of the swift flowing canals about us and she presses it to her face when I offer it to her.

"Can you speak of it?" I ask, settling close beside her.

She shakes her head, taking in a long trembling breath.

The sun has broken through the clouds, sending his light streaming in upon us. I glance about of a sudden, taking in the flowers and green of the leaves of the lemon tree, bright as were they made of elvish glass and not grown from the earth, and the press of metal and glass all about. Mayhap 'twas not the best place for such a conversation.

"What is it you wish?" I ask. "What would improve your mood?"

"I would see your daughter," comes bursting from her without thought, catching us both by surprise.

Aye, yes! I think I like this very much.

"Good, then let us see what mischief she has gotten into," I say, and this lights a smile upon her face, though her laughter is yet uncertain.

She folds the cloth upon itself. "Aye, lady, last I saw of her, she was making a pottage of mud and tender leaves in the bowls from her breakfast and attempting to feed them to Lord Erestor as he and Lord Glorfindel celebrated his return."

I laugh. For, indeed, that does sound like my child.

"I think, mayhap, we should go rescue him, then."

I rise and extend my hand to her.

"He is our most skilled diplomat, Lady Nienelen," she says as I pull her aloft. "I do not know what you intend, but I have no intention of intervening. I intend to watch."

~oOo~


	72. Chapter 71

~ Chapter 71 ~

_"Now as the sun went down Aragorn and Éomer and Imrahil drew near the City with their captains and knights; and when they came before the Gate Aragorn said:_

_'Behold the Sun setting in a great fire! It is a sign of the end and fall of many things, and a change in the tides of the world. But this City and realm has rested in the charge of the Stewards for many long years, and I fear that if I enter it unbidden, then doubt and debate may arise, which should not be while this war is fought. I will not enter in, nor make any claim, until it be seen whether we or Mordor shall prevail. Men shall pitch my tents upon the field, and here I will await the welcome of the Lord of the City.'_

_But Éomer said: 'Already you have raised the banner of the Kings and displayed the tokens of Elendil's House. Will you suffer these to be challenged?'_

_'No,' said Aragorn. 'But I deem the time unripe; and I have no mind for strife except with our Enemy and his servants."_

ROTK: The Houses of Healing

~oOo~

My daughter grows strong, and I am not discontent.

I have found occupation of a gentler, quieter sort in Imladris. Here, when the Lady and I rest from our efforts to shape what shall become of the latter and firstborn of the Northlands, I spend my time spinning the fine threads of my hosts and weaving them into patterns more ancient than I can fathom. My daughter dances amidst our chairs upon the great terrace, her limbs grown strong and sure. There the Lady of Imladris smiles upon her. Her folk have taught my daughter to move and speak as one of the Eldar race. She laughs oft, her merriment bubbling from her as one of the mountain springs and sings as easily as she breathes. And yet, to me, in her I see the folk of the Dúnedain. For she grows as fair and as bright and as joyful as my sister returned to us. In her, I see my lord and I amixed, with my delight in the mastery of the threads that connect one thing to another and her father's striking gaze that takes all in and, atimes, seems to see more than you would wish.

Here, I watch her grow and await what comes next.

I cannot say I do so with great patience. The world we know stands upon the very brink. I have heard tales of wondrous deeds, performed by hands both great and small. It is as were I standing upon the threshold of greater things. The world is wide open beyond the door and just awaits my stepping upon it. I have learned much and, _ai,_ I burn with the need to take this new knowledge there.

For, still, I dream.

Here, in this place in which is found the voice of the Vala mingled amidst the sound of swift waters that fills the hours of both waking and sleep, they come to me. In flashes of bright color and voices raised in song and debate, 'tis the folk of the Dúnedain of the North. Caravans wind through hills, driving herds of goats and sheep and horses from their summer pastures afore them. Farmers and merchants pull wagons of their wares upon roads made clear and safe. The Council of Clans, the Elders of the Angle, and the homesteaders have been called to attendance. For the High Days of _Aderthad a Egleria_ are upon us. There we meet for the business of trade, the affirmation of alliances, the courting of our folk young and old, and the plans for our mutual defense. And, aye, there is dancing. So much, indeed, that I am dizzy and drunk with movement and song.

But there is naught so bright and clear as a brief moment just ere wakening, when I see again Aragorn, son of Arathorn, the last of the Chieftain of the Dúnedain of the Northlands. There he kneels afore me in a long place with high arches of stone and marble beneath my feet. Light strikes upon his temples where are now found silvered hairs, and the lines at the corners of his eyes have deepened. The hall rings with the silence of the folk gathered there in witness. For the King has returned to the North upon the shores of Lake Evendim, and would, at long last, take up his seat. His look is as resolute as ever, but I know, so close am I, the trembling of his breath and the glimmer of light that catches upon his eyes. And, it is my hands that hold the star of Elvish crystal bound in a fillet of mithril above his head.

Oh, _ai! _ I hope.

All is in place to begin, the Lady and I done with our conversations for now. And so, in the sweetness of the dawn of a new Age, we await my lord's choice, the Lady and I, and find each other's company a blessing.

My heart has found ease here, for a little. Were my lord here, I would tell him so.

And so it is this day, when the air is clear and carries the scent of the budding of hawthorns off the side of the mountain, I have seen pennants of black and silver flying from the great tents of the King of Gondor's company. There they have set up camp on the far side of the Fords of Bruinen. When dawn broke and we knew them arrived, the Lady and I rode with her father and his folk by hidden paths upon the mountainside where we could look down upon the encampment unremarked. He commanded no banner displayed. No claim of lordship o'er the Northlands or ranks of soldiers to confront the Master of Imladris upon his doorstep. No men with weapons upon their hips sent to enter the Hidden Vale to demand my presence and enforce their liege lord's will upon me. For the King of Gondor has come and sent the sons of Master Elrond ahead of him to beg audience ere he enters the Hidden Vale. Even now, the Lord of Imladris has ridden to the Fords, there to treat with him. He shall return with letters for both I and the Lady, and we await them ere we decide what to do next.

"I am as an ox plucked from the field and set to it," I say, for I am all fumbled-fingers and ill-tempered, and am slow to pick up on the pattern we are attempting to set.

"Nay!" Arwen cries and laughs. My daughter on her hip, she had been singing and whirling the girl about until she hiccupped from laughter. "Do not speak so. You are not doing so bad as that. Come, think of it as a dance."

She taps at my hip, urging me to make room for her on the bench.

With the deepening of spring, they have brought the treadle looms out of doors onto a wide terrace between the burbling of cleverly crafted streams. When, for the ache of waiting, I could not settle and she, herself, seemed nigh to distress, she has promised to show me the way of weaving upon the long floor looms of her folk.

They had awaited me, the Lady and my daughter. Long stems of pink lady's smock and bluebells they had plucked from about the streams and beneath the flowering trees, Elenir leading the Lady by the hand through the gardens in search of them. And so, while I tested the warp and tightened its threads until their notes when plucked sounded true, Elenir stood between her knees waving the flowers about and the Lady wove their blooms into my child's hair, telling her tales of I know not what to her to keep her still as she worked.

"We have no music," I grumble, shifting over. Placing Elenir upon her lap where she can put her arms about her, Arwen settles beside me on the bench.

"Come now, that is hardly an excuse."

"You would not wish to hear my singing."

"Mayhap that is true," she says, a little more quickly than to my liking. She laughs at my sour look. "Then we shall sing for you," she says, peering down at my daughter, "shall we not?"

"I want to sing!" cries Elenir. "_Mamil_, you do not sing. You do not do it right."

_Ai!_ I am torn between indignation and laughter. I suppose I should accustom myself to the feeling, for with my daughter's keen look and the ease of her laughter, I think I shall be much put to it to hide my faults. Aye, she has the right of it. Oh, she shall have her own voice, and I shall ensure it. But mayhap she shall her father's ease of singing, not mine.

Arwen has grabbed up a wooden shuttle from the basket at our feet and, handing it to the child, Elenir bangs it against the bar upon which I have tied the warp. I do not think it will help us keep time. But, natheless, so we proceed.

"Right," Arwen says, pointing at my foot and humming a tune I have yet to recognize.

I press the treadle and the heddle raises a tent of warp and she urges me to set the wheeled shuttle darting among the threads.

So absorbed are we in the clack of wooden treadles to the tune of their singing, and slip of heddles along the long lines of warp as I beat the weft, I do not see the shadow that has fallen upon us. I thought mayhap we would look up to find him smiling fondly and taking us in with a deeply puzzled look as he watched, for would not be the first he had come upon us thus, but he is not. He stands, unspeaking, his hands clasped afore him.

When we fall silent, and even my daughter takes in his solemn look, Lord Elrond speaks low.

"It is time."

It seems our hands have found the other's without our commanding it. She says naught, for we have prepared for this, she and I.

"No matter what comes," she had said, and I, taking her hand, had agreed.

And so, when she steps away from the loom, she holds me firm so I might take up Elenir and ease myself from between bench and frame more easily.

The face he turns to both is equally grave, and I cannot say from his look what my future will hold.

And so, it has come to this. The days have grown short until they are no more, and the time is at hand. I follow them, for we are to go to his chambers. At the narrowness of the path, they have walked a little afore me, father and daughter, his hand gentle upon her back.

The spring has been kind, with rains that fall softly and tender leaves that tremble above our heads. The wind blows upon us from beyond the White Towers and sighs in the tall pines.

Deep is the way we shall tread into the garden upon a path that winds its way between leaf and flower. I know not what we shall meet upon the way, for the trail twists upon itself beneath dark boughs so I cannot see its end. But there I go.

It is time.

~oOo~


	73. Chapter 72

~ Chapter 72 ~

~oOo~

_TA 3019, this 14th day of Nárië_

_From Aragorn, son of Arathorn, chieftain of the Dúnedain of Arnor, known also as Elessar Telcontar, King of Gondor, to Nienelen, the Lady of the Dúnedain of the Northlands and my dear wife,_

_Long have I pondered our last farewell, but with little relief. Once, I let myself be swayed by the counsels of men, setting aside what my heart would tell me, and swore I would not to do so again. And yet, in this matter, I knew little of my own heart, for it was, and is, greatly torn. _

_You know me too well, lady, to think I would lightly set aside a vow freely given, and yet you seemed determined to tempt me. I had not thought it would be you who would lay afore me a trap made of my own weaknesses. Such a simple thing, to say "aye" or "nay," and yet so perilous upon each point. Never have I felt so unequal to the test. I regret the loss of your gentle counsel even as I have been in the greatest need of it. _

_But now we are come to, you and I, and we must come to a decision. I beg you travel hither or allow my entrance into the Vale. _

_I would not leave Elenir long without a greater acquaintance with her father. I wish, too, to see you again, and, should we do naught else, take a better farewell than our last. You may do so without fear. Should you wish, I will come to you alone in a place of your choosing, but there are those dear to me here whom I would have know you. _

_I await your instruction._

_Your servant in this matter, _

_~ A_

~oOo~

The light blue of the cloth is much soiled, it's cord of linen frayed and cut through. Faded as it is, I am uncertain I would have known it but for the braid of hair yet coiled within.

My lord has fallen silent. For it seems he could not bring himself to speak of the battle upon the fields of the Pelennor and the death of his kin there afore the walls of Minas Tirith.

High above the river that winds through the foothills of the Misty Mountains we sit, here upon a bench of dry laid stone with a grove of pines at our back to break the wind.

The day is bright. Shadows glide upon the hills and meadows, thrown there by clouds as they pass high overhead. Summer has come in its fullness, with garments of green upon the meadows and a carpet of a blue and purple vetch laid at our feet.

So, he is gone then, my _Great Hound_. After deeds of great courage and strength, had said my lord when he pressed the bit of cloth to my hand, and then could say no more.

And yet, I had known it already. Indeed, I knew of Halbarad's passing from the first I came upon my lord.

We emerged from the screen of trees at the Fords of Bruinen to find a small village of brightly colored tents sprung up in the grasses across the river. I heard naught but the rush of water o'er the lip of the stone of the ford and our horses' splashing through the shallows, but from a distance I saw him emerge from beneath a pavilion of cloth. He had not raised the Lady's banner, but there behind him was erected a tent of painted cloth upon which pennants of sable trimmed in silver fluttered. A silver swan upon a green field of silk there was fixed upon a pole afore another tent, and I knew the House of Dol Amroth, among others, were come as witness.

There he stood, tall and commanding, his look as grim as when I had first met him. Where once he had stood amidst his men afore the door to his house, today, my lord waited alone to greet us. We were to spend the sennight together, he and I and his daughter. But, first, we had much to say to the other ere she was to join us.

For all the joy that leapt in my heart at the sight of him standing unbowed by weariness or hurt, grief then fell upon me. For his kin was not there beside him, and the light of the morning sun flashed against the black cloth upon my lord's shoulder, caught there by a many-rayed silver star of the North.

I think my lord saw that I knew it for what it was, for his greeting was solemn. He then begged I remain upon my mount and called his gelding sent for. For he had somewhat he wished to show me, he said, ere we spoke of what I had come down from the riven valley to hear.

And so we did not speak until he had led us up through winding paths beside shaws of rowans and outcrops of stone to this high place. And it was not until he brought us to a halt that he touched me.

He stood at my mare's shoulder holding her bridle, I still seated upon her back, and peered up at me. He said naught, and indeed seemed undecided what to say, though words crowded behind that gaze that pierced mine. It came to me, then, he was uncertain, and did not know should I welcome his touch even to help me alight to the ground.

So close was he I could see the flecks of light in the grey of his eyes and the wind-burned skin about them from where he had squinted against the sun in his travels. I do not know what I said or what sound I made at that, but, for the sudden fullness of my heart, found I had raised my hand and there brushed my fingers upon his cheek. 'Twas then, his grim look broke and his hands came upon me, pulling me to him from where I sat.

"_Ai,_ Nienelen!" he sighed close to my ear where he had gathered me into an embrace. He had me clutched against his breast and I my arms wrapped about his neck as tight.

"I have brought him home," he said low, "where he would wish to rest, should you bear him with you but a little further."

And so, for a long moment, we did naught but cling to the other, his breath shivering upon my neck, ere I nodded. He then took me by the hand and led me from the grove of tall pines until they opened upon the world about us.

A sudden breeze rushing up from the river stirs the boughs of the trees and lifts the fine hairs about my lord's face from where he looks out upon the hills and meadows below us. Forgoing the silks of the Elves, I have dressed myself in a finely woven wool of my own devising. Shot with silk, it is the color of cream and glows softly with the sun. I am glad for it. Though the sun is warm, the wind is chill and burns upon my cheeks where they are wet.

"Were you…" and then I cannot speak, so fresh this wounding, but must wipe at tears anew.

"No," my lord says from where he has leaned his arms across his knees and clasps his hands between them, "but he was not alone. He had commanded Boradan stay close, and Mathil, too, was there."

So grim his look, I cannot forbear from placing my hand upon his back and resting my head upon his shoulder. There he leans his cheek to the crown of my head and sighs, taking up my other hand and pressing a lingering kiss upon my knuckles. He rubs the skin along the bones of my hand ere he glances out upon the land at our feet again.

"Aye, were only he here to see this," he says, and indeed I hope, wherever fate has taken Halbarad, he knows all we had labored to bring about has held true to its promise.

My lord clasps my hand between both of his when he turns in his seat to face me. His look is resolute. And by this, I know the time has come.

He searches my face, it seems, for any hint of hesitation or uncertainty, and, no matter the sudden clench of my heart his question brings, I may show none. For I must do this.

"Your mind is unchanged?"

I am unable to give it voice, but when I shake my head, he nods, as had he expected my answer. He looks away to squint into the bright light of day.

"I have had much time to think, lady," he says, his thumb running across my wrist and his eyes returned to fix there, "and for my kin to remind me of every time you had said me 'aye.' Even in our last days in the Angle, you did as I bid, though it broke your heart to do it. He was much of the opinion that should you now say me 'nay,' it was on me to consider the weight of what I asked with great care."

His hair has fallen about his face, and I cannot see what is writ there.

"And what have you decided, my lord?"

He lets loose a long breath ere speaking, and even then does not answer me. The music of his voice is flat, as had he severed the words from his heart.

"The lord Boromir ask me to pass on his desire to beg your forgiveness," he says, "and his hope you and he would meet under better circumstances."

That, I had not thought to expect, for even I have heard of the passing of the Lord of the Tower of Guard.

"He spoke of our meeting to you?"

"Aye, indeed. The road was long and we had many conversations on the matter, and others close to it. I found him amenable, lady, as is his brother, now my Steward, who is very eager to spend more time in speech with you one day. His is a restless mind, ever seeking more knowledge and eager for wisdom. I have great hopes for him."

"And yet," he goes on and turns my hand to cup it in his as were he holding somewhat precious.

"Lady," he says, glancing upon me ere his gaze returns to my hand where he clasps it, "it was in Rohan and Gondor that I made my entry into the world of Men and there, for the first, thought I had truly learned of the violence we will do to one another. I have fought in many battles. I have killed many men. And, still, I thought it noble. For what man may not have the right to defend home and hearth and kin?"

And here, at last, he looks fully upon me, his gaze solemn.

"But my travels in Harad were long, lady, and I met many of their folk, and listened to what stories they would tell, and saw much of what the men of Númenor wrought there. And aye, you had the right of it, indeed, my heart was filled with much confusion and doubt after. One day, should you like, we will speak of it."

Even now, he cannot hold my gaze long when speaking of this. Still it seems too near. He takes again to examining my hand and caressing the skin upon my wrist with a tenderness that belies the words he speaks next.

"Of all our enemies upon the Pelennor, the men of Harad alone asked for no quarter and fought as should they have no hope of it, us, no matter it was offered to others. Not a one, lady, survived that day," he says and sighs. "I will fight to the last man to defend my land and my people, but I hope to ne'er see the like of it again.

"I still have hope of peace and, this I swear to you, lady, I shall do my utmost to achieve it." He has then pulled my hand to his breast, where he clutches it against him. "I cannot do it alone. I hope to have your help in it, should you be willing to give it."

I would wish it, too, but it seems best then, not to promise more than I can give.

"Inasmuch as I can, my lord."

Here he looks upon me, and then nods, a smile, slight and somewhat sad upon his face. He rises from where he sits, refusing to release my hand. There he urges me to standing and pulls me out from the shadows of the pines.

With the sun on our faces, he halts upon the lip of stone and looks out upon the brightly lit world. The land falls away beneath our feet and the wind rushes upon us, tossing the heads of the lone rowan trees and riffling through the blooms of the vetch and grasses.

"All this, Nienelen, we have done," he says, holding my hand tight to his breast.

He breathes deep and somewhat about him settles. For it is peaceful, here where the far horizon fades in a haze of blue sky and mist, the sun blinks fitfully upon the river within its deep bank and screen of birch and willow trees about it, and the hawks slip as dark shadows below us upon the stream of air arising from the Bruinen.

"And I could not have achieved it without your efforts."

There, turning away from the sight, he takes my hand and binds it in both of his own between us. His look has fallen grim again, and he licks at his lips ere pressing them tightly together for a moment. He will not look upon me, but stares at where our hands are bound together.

Oh_, ai!_ Greatly do I dread what next he is to say, though it must come.

"And yet," he says and swallows, the sound harsh and his throat working, "you have had your year and proven your resolve.

"I am unwilling to court the evil it would take to force your hand," he says, his voice tightening with his throat and his words stiff as had he long prepared them, "and I must bow to the necessity of providing an heir to preserve our people. And thus I must take up your offer and release you - "

And then he has dropped my hand. He is done and can say no more. For he has stepped away, his back to me and arms tightly wrapped about his breast. In the brief glimpse I had of it ere he turned his back to me, his face had twisted with a sudden pain that sent a shock through me.

_Ai! _ I cannot say the words for him. It is he who must.

And then, with a sudden violence he shouts, his voice harsh and echoing against the side of the mountain. It has the ring of a curse, though I know not the words, and my heart sinks. Oh, should he not be able to do this, I know not what shall happen. The sound fades away and still he is silent, standing tense and unmoving with the light of the summer sun streaming down upon us.

"Oh, Nienelen," he says, his voice shaking and bitter. "I have never been so angered when not in the midst of battle as when you sent the Lady of Rivendell's gift to me upon the plains of Rohan.

"My own kinsman, and my men you sent it with! Set upon its path by her father and in the company of his sons with their full knowledge of what it meant. Even Mithrandir was unsurprised. For when I brought my complaints to him, he refused to venture an opinion on the matter, but reminded me I had chosen you for your strength of will and it did me little credit to think it would never be bent upon me.

"Aye, you may not have made allies out of all of my closest councilors, but neither had I their backing. No king is well-settled upon a throne he has just taken, no matter the goodwill of the folk who allowed him there. Should I pursue any choice but the one you wished to its reasoned end, and by violence force you to do what you clearly did not wish or separate you from your daughter, I risked arraying them against me just when I needed them most."

He laughs of a sudden, high and harsh. "And had you thought it would quell my desire to make you my queen, it did not! By what means you made her your friend and turned her heart, I cannot fathom! Even in the midst of my greatest fury I must admit it. 'Twas well played, lady, and you have proven yet again your ability to turn events to your favor."

Oh, I know not what to do! Frozen in place, my heart beats in my ears so that my hands tingle for want of blood in them. I want naught more than to flee. _Ai!_ I cannot take this, it tears at my heart so.

With sudden scape of his boots upon the stone, he turns back to me, his look fierce. "Say but the word, lady," he says low, "and we can restart our arguments again at our leisure."

Oh, _ai!_ No! May it please the Valar, I would pray to any one of them who would listen to bring a halt to this. But he does not stop and instead, has taken my face in his hands and his keen gaze bores into mine. I clutch at his hands where he has me clasped.

"We can sit upon this mountain as long as you please," he says, the tears upon his cheeks a match for my own, "and, for you, you and I can shout down the mountain and I will give it whatever time it requires until you are satisfied."

He draws a breath and, his face growing pained, seems poised then on pleading with me. And then I do the only thing I can think, and have flown at him and, taking the cloth upon his shoulders in my fists, pressed my lips to his. I cannot say it is the gentlest of kisses I have pressed upon my lord, but he cannot say it wanting in its effect. For though a low sound of surprise bursts from his throat, his lips then soften and he returns my kisses with those of his own, pursuing my mouth and tilting my head so he may deepen the kiss and taste my tongue and lips.

When I push him away, his look is shocked and uncertain.

_Ai! _I think, mayhap I have pulled him under with me in the tide of my desperation.

"I have sent Bachor north," I say, and he stills at the suddenness of my declaration, no doubt unsure as to why I would say such a thing at this moment.

"I have somewhat I would offer in farewell, my lord. Would you receive it?" I ask and he lets loose a soft, bitter laugh, and presses his brow to mine.

"Ah lady, greatly have you avenged yourself upon me for my temptation of you."

"I sought only to halt it, my lord," I whisper. "In truth, I could bear no more."

"Nor I the pain of your attempts to stop me," he says and sighs.

With a pang, I brush tendrils of his hair grown wild in the wind back from his temple. I had not meant to hurt him, and only regret it now, no matter how greatly torn my own heart.

"Forgive me, my lord."

This time the kiss is light and brief, and it is my lord who presses his lips to mine. He then laughs a little against them.

"I am afraid to ask what you have to offer me, lady, given what you thought I might accept of you when last we spoke of farewells."

"I think, mayhap, you would much prefer these."

I draw away and he lets me go, rising to his full height and releasing my face.

From the pocket tied beneath my skirts, I pull somewhat. It is small enough to remain hidden in my hand, and my lord watches me closely.

The cord had broke by some mischance, and he had left it behind upon the tall chest in the solar for fear it would be lost should he take it with him. When first he had left me in the Hidden Vale, I had attempted to repair it for him, but then reconsidered its gifting. It seemed a cruelty to give it when, at the same time, I would be demanding he put me aside and separate from his daughter.

And so I hold it out to him now. And there the sun catches within the strands of dark curls woven together as one. I doubt not he sees the Lady of Rivendell's hand in it. For my fix of a binding of cord of linen was not like to last, and so, instead had she commanded the fashioning of a narrow, plain band of silver and bronze be made upon which it could be fastened. It is thicker than afore, for I have added our daughter's curls to that of my own and our son's.

And I think he must know it. For now does he openly weep, his face twisted with his tears.

"_Ai, _lady!"

I think then, he shall master himself and take it from me, but he does not. Instead, his arm is about me, pulling me to his breast, and fingers cradling my face. His shadow falls upon me and he is kissing me, his lips soft and slow upon mine when my arms come about his shoulders. There I can learn, again, the warmth and silk of his hair and the strength of the sinews of his back where he bends to me.

So tender is he, I think my heart shall break for it. We shall have this time together, for I think the Lady of Imladris has learned much from my tales of my early years as my lord's wife. Though I have not spoken of it in much detail, she would not wish to take for her husband a man who has had no chance yet to grieve. But what we shall have will be brief, and, should my lord continue to touch me with such gentleness, bittersweet.

"Should you permit it," I say in that small space between us when we pull apart, "there is much north of the Downs and west to the sea that our folk no longer populate. No pastures or homesteads, and the icefishers of Forochel have found use for it. Should you permit it, I would have Bachor offer it in trade and make it theirs."

He frowns at me. "For what would you exchange it?"

"The Palantir of Annúminas, I would imagine, though I know not which for certain."

"What?" he asks, his hand digging into my back where he has clutched me to him. His eyes flick about my face, as were he searching for some trick or falsehood. "Truly?"

"Aye," I say, "so that when you return south, you need not worry, my lord, your daughter shall forget you." And then have little chance to say much more, for he has caught me up against him.

_"Ai, híril nín, how shall I say farewell to thee?" _comes his voice, muffled as it is against the crown of my head.

"As e'er you have, my lord," I say, but he shakes his head.

"Nay, lady," he says, "from thence forward from our parting it shall not be the same as afore."

_Ai! _ At this, I have fastened upon the cloth of his tunic deep in my grip and sunk more deeply to his breast where I can feel the rise and fall of his breath.

"I have somewhat prepared for your farewell, should you accept it of me," he says.

He then withdraws, and I must release him. There he pulls back his sleeve and offers his arm, and I ease the band about his wrist. He runs his fingers upon the uneven surface of the weaving, testing it against the tips of his fingers as were he recalling the feel of it from afore, when he would travel far from us and needed the reminder of what awaited him.

"Will you accept my blessing?" he asks when done and his sleeve has fallen o'er his wrist.

_Ai! _ It has come. And so I nod, though I know it shall bring us closer to the end.

I know not what my lord sees upon my face, but when he takes my face between his hands, the press of his lips upon my brow lingers warmly. It is only then, beneath his shadow where he cannot see me, I can let my face show what my heart feels. For, now that it has come to it, some small part of myself wishes only we could go back to the start, and I might stand afore my lord's hall once again, in a dress far too long for my frame, and take his hand and let him lead me where so whither he willed.

"_Though I shall release thee from thy vows that bind us in marriage," _he says and, struggle though I might, and I knew they would come, I cannot contain the gasp of pain at his words.

And for a long moment, he speaks, but, for the shock of it, I know not the words he says, though they come softly said against my brow.

_"Still I would have thee retain those thou madest for the care of our people and our House," _he goes on. _"For though thou mayest no longer be wife, thou shalt e'er be kin to me and a daughter of the House of Isildur. _

_"Ever shall I have need of thee. So once I swore, and shall do so again. Thou art híril nín, and I would have no other retain that name. I pray thee preserve my memory in the Dúnedain of the North and care for them in my name much as thou ever hast. I have not forgotten the great debt I owe them. Name what thou needst and I will see it done! Should it not be by myself, then by another._

I know not for what I had hoped. But, I think, now, we have come to an end, and there is naught left to do, but, once done, gather our things and proceed down the mountain to whatever shall await us there. I know not what I feel, but I think it is empty and a little cold.

_"Therefore,"_ he says and draws a great breath ere proceeding, _"I beg thee take up the stewardship of the lands of Arnor reunited, with all its titles, powers, and responsibilities." _

So long have I been silent, the whirl of my thoughts so quick I cannot catch upon one or the other, the light when he pulls away strikes my eyes and I am blinded and unable to see his face.

"Nienelen?"

I blink at him in wonder and disbelief.

He searches my face and, his voice quiet, he pleads, "Will you do this for me? I would choose no other for it."

It seems I cannot remove my eyes from his face, though they ache. And I am reminded again, why I, and others like me, followed him with such devotion. For should he look upon me with such trust that I could do whatever I willed and had the power to mend all that needed healing, to repair all that had been broken, and make anew what must be built, I would do it.

"Aye, I shall," I say and, for the first since I have seen him upon his return, a smile breaks bright upon his face. Such is his delight, I must touch him, and I do, running the tips of my fingers from brow to cheek to the soft hair upon his jaw.

"Aye, Aragorn," I say, and then I, too, smile upon him. "Indeed, I am willing."

He laughs. "Aye! That is good!" he cries, though there are tears that wet his cheeks.

I cannot stop from smiling more broadly in return, his joy shines so brightly from him, though it spills the tears that have gathered in my own eyes.

"_Then, I pray thee, kneel,_" he says and, taking my hands, holds tight as I lower myself to grass at his feet.

He leaves me there for a moment, and the wind whips through the pines from the tops of the mountains, bringing with it the smell of sun-warmed grass and the scent of earth wet from melted snow and new rising sap. The mountain breathes upon me as I wait, pressing my skirts to the backs of my knees and stirring my hair, and I lift my face to its touch. When I open my eyes, he is there and the path I would follow is clear.

In my lord's hands he holds a casket of dark wood. When he opens its lid and drops it to the grass, he has in his hands a collar of silver. Made of many forms overlaid with a clear, blue, enameled glass as a line of cresting waves chained together, it clinks gently against itself as he turns it about. There he lifts it o'er my head and lays it about my shoulders. It is sturdily made and lies heavy upon my back and breast and is chill with the wind and the shadow in which it had laid.

Upon my shoulder where it comes together, he then plucks the emblem from his tunic and pins the many-rayed star of the Dúnedain of the North as were the collar made to receive it.

"Behold the kingdom of Arnor Reunited and its Lady Steward," he says softly and pulls me to standing beside him.

Dig deep your foundation and raise high the walls upon it," he says and kisses my brow. "For I shall return to you in the North one day and see what fortress you have made."

Aye, I shall. For there is much to be done.

And I am not afraid.

~oOo~

The End

~oOo~


	74. Time Stamp - Fidelity

For Idrils_Scribe, who wondered how and when Arwen and Elrond heard of Aragorn's arranged marriage, and for JulsaIthil, who asked for something from Aragorn's point of view. Not quite Aragorn's POV, but here we learn more of his thoughts on the matter.

Set between the events of Halbarad and Nienelen's first conversation and the wedding feast of that evening.

~oOo~

Halbarad made the slow climb from hall and hearth. There was naught to hear above stairs, though light steamed in through the slats in the shutters. The sun lit upon the lingering smoke that had seeped through the floor from the hearth below and upon the curtains pulled open about the canopied bed.

All was still and quiet. Were he to approach the side of that bed with dread in his heart, would be none who could blame him. For not long ago had he come upon the man lying within, bloodied and scarce breathing, cold and sunk deep in the mud upon the Ettenmoors beneath a tangle of dead men and orc.

But though the skin of his face was pale so that hair and beard lay stark upon it, he breathed, the blanket rising and falling in shallow rhythm. And so Halbarad sat and resumed his vigil. He waits for sleep to lighten and his kinsman, Aragorn, lord and chief of the Dúnedain, to awake. It will not be long. He already shifts and then swiftly stills, his brow furrowing at the prod of pain that comes with movement.

"How did she take it?" comes Aragorn's voice once his eyes have opened. He moves little, and that cautiously. Low and short of breath he speaks, as dare he draw in but a little air. He grunts lightly and arches back in attempt to find a more restful place upon the bed.

"As could be expected. She accused me of playing her for a fool."

This earns him the barest of smiles. "Then, aye, a woman of good sense, as you said. It cannot have been easy, your conversation."

At this, Halbarad answers his kin's smile with a wry one of his own.

"No. No, 'twas not," he says, for indeed it was an awkward discussion, regardless of the necessity of it or the help offered when he was at a loss for words. But it was not this that makes him pause.

"What is it?"

Halbarad shakes his head and rubs roughened palms against the cloth of his breeches. "She is changed," he says after some moments.

"She is not near so young, as when first you met her. Mayhap it is this."

"Aye," he agrees, though uncertainly and then shakes his head. "Nay, 'tis more than that."

Mayhap his kin had little strength with which to aid his thoughts or mayhap he simply waits and listens, for the silence stretches out under Aragorn's keen eyes, and Halbarad's thoughts are slow to form.

"She was never one for much speech," Halbarad says at first, "though eager to know more and asked questions I was hard pressed to satisfy when I was their guest.

"But she was once amused by the simplest of things," he goes on, his voice quickening. "It would take but a look from her sister to set them to merriment. But now, there is little of joy about her as once there was."

Aragorn considers him, making a soft, thoughtful sound. "I would be surprised, were she unmoved," says he. "Her sister and aunt are gone, and now, the last of her kin is dead. She is very alone. Had I not you, you might find me the same."

Here Halbarad nods and, with a quick glance at the parchment folded and sealed upon the bedside table, plucks at the cloth bunched about his knee.

"You think we take advantage? We could ask another."

Halbarad snorts lightly. "Aye and give grave insult to Nienelen, when she just consented to marry you. Had I thought the conversation requesting her hand was painful, would pale when compared to spurning it. She is not one to forgive easily. 'Tis said Bachor offered her a place among his kin and she turned his sister from her house ere she had set foot in the door."

"You could always offer to marry her yourself, in recompense," comes the reply, though offered with somewhat of amusement.

"Aragorn, are you that willfully dense? _Must I explain it to thee again_?"

"You were very young, and but newly released from Haldren's tutelage. 'Twas a long time you went without company," he says and smiles a little more broadly. "I think I might have composed just such an ode to a man's parts, were I in your place." He coughs a little and then grimaces as should he have regretted moving so sharply.

"I am pleased you recall it so fondly. Shall I sing it for you again?"

"Nay! Pray you, do not. 'Twas endearing enough at the first recitation, but then you were very drunk, and recited it within Elrohir's hearing."

"Not my wisest choice," Halbarad observes wryly.

"Nor your best effort."

"Though I hear he has improved on it."

"Aye and put it to song, added another several verses, and has not stopped singing it since."

Halbarad chuckles and for some time cannot speak for the laughter that wells atimes. "Aye, well, Elrohir gives me enough fodder for my revenge without being either very young or very drunk."

"Verily!"

After a moment, Aragorn drags a hand from beneath the covers and taps his fist upon his kin's knee ere laying his hand there. "Yet you have always wanted children, a family. You said she was of a sensible nature. She could live here, for she would be kin of the House, should you take her to wife. Mayhap you could come to an arrangement of some kind, should you make the terms you offer worthy of her."

"Ah, 'tis not that," Halbarad says and falls silent, considering his kinsman for a long moment ere he moves. With a careful touch, he plucks the folds of parchment from where they rest between cup and pitcher on the table, setting the inkhorn that had rested against it rocking.

The bundle is not as thick as he had thought it would be. Mayhap there was not much to say other than the barest of announcements and regrets.

"You have written it," Halbarad says, turning it between his thumbs so the light skims across the wax seal.

This does not earn him a reply. Mayhap, too, there was not much to say here as well, though his kinsman's hand still rests warmly upon his knee. When he looks to the bed, it is to find Aragorn considering him, his face solemn. There is little of sorrow to be found there, though he would allow the man has had many years to learn the art of the concealment of his heart.

"Do you truly wish this?"

"Do you have objections to the match?" asks Aragorn, his voice low.

"Not to the match, Aragorn, to the whole idea of it!"

He shifts a little on the bed and sighs. "Have you discovered by what means she outmatched Bachor?"

Halbarad shakes his head. "Do you wish me to continue the attempt?"

"No, best stop, now she has consented."

When no other answer seems forthcoming, Halbarad presses his lips tightly and taps the edge of the letter upon his knee ere pointing its corner at his kinsman. "Do not lie or attempt to evade me. I know you too well. You do not wish this."

"Halbarad – "

"Jest or no, why else make the attempt to foist her upon me?"

"Halbarad, you make too much –"

"I know, Aragorn!" he says, his voice rising. He glares at the man despite the hand that squeezes his knee. He lifts the letter and shakes it. "I should burn this thing rather than send it!" He claps it down upon its edge upon the table between cup and pitcher. "This is not what you want, what you delayed and sacrificed all else for, else you would have found another woman among our kin long ago."

"Halbarad!" Aragorn says louder, wincing at the strain. 'Tis this, and the sight of eyes clamped shut and a face pinched in pain that makes his kinsman cease.

Halbarad leans his arms against his legs, clasps his hands and there rubs his thumbs one against the other.

"Halbarad," Aragorn says after some moments, shaking his knee and looking earnestly upon his kin. "I have neglected things too long, here, and left it in hands that should not have had the burden."

"You are a fool should you think us unwilling."

"My mother was not a young woman, Halbarad, but she should not have aged as she did," says Aragorn. "You tell me; what manner of man does naught but bring pain to the women he loves?"

There is no answer to give his kinsman. Not that there is no rebuttal, but none that had been successful in satisfying him. And Halbarad had tried them all.

"And what manner of leader of men does not listen to the pleas of those who depend on him," Aragorn continues, "but does only what his own heart desires?"

With this, Halbarad sighs and rubs at his brow, still unable to look upon his kin. 'Tis uncertain why the warmth of his kinsman's touch at such a time brings discomfort. But it does, and Aragorn's grip tightens as he would strengthen his plea with his touch.

"We have never spoken of it," says Aragorn, his voice growing soft and earnest, "but I know your heart, Halbarad. 'Tis one of the many regrets I bear that it is not in me to fulfill what it would wish of me."

When his kin stops to catch what breath he can for the pain it causes him, Halbarad would have stirred to put an end to aught else he might say, was it not for the burning of his eyes and the poor trust his voice deserves at this moment.

"Do not think I have failed to see what you sacrificed at my behest," Aragorn says. "How can I do any less?"

Words well beneath Halbarad's thoughts, but there are none that seem fitting. And so, he remains silent.

"She has the wit to measure the scope of that to which she has consented, aye?"

Halbarad nods and clears his throat with some effort. "She does."

"Then that must be enough." With this, Aragorn withdraws his hand, sinking back into the pillow. Already he tires, his eyes dull and face grayed with the cost paid for so little speech.

"Ah, look at me," exclaims Halbarad. He sniffs and swipes at his cheeks with rough hands. "I have tired you without need." He rises.

"Be easy," he says and lifts the blanket and linens so his kin may ease his arm back to the mattress unhindered. "My misgivings are my own."

"Sleep," he commands and tucks the bedclothes about the man's shoulders. It will not be long. Already Aragorn's eyes drift unfocused and he settles more deeply to his bed. "I will wake you when it is time."

With that, Halbarad takes up the letter, weighing it in his hands for a moment ere he collects inkhorn, quill, and writing desk. For within it are missives to the Lord of the Hidden Vale and, no doubt, his daughter.

They shall have a long way to travel and their news will be old ere they arrive. But now, now that faint sounds arise from down the stairs of men sweeping away leaves drifted beneath door frames, chasing vermin from their nests in the buttery, restocking the pantry, scouring flagstones, and setting up tables for the wedding feast, there is no longer a cause to delay the start of their journey.


	75. Time Stamp - Twice Blessed

They say, "write what you know." Apparently, I know a lot about paperwork, crunching numbers, and fighting off sleep to get it done.

This is a bit of domestic fluff, set soon after the events in Chapter 23. It spoils no plot points, is completely unrelated to anything happening in the story itself, but does spoil the status of Aragorn and Nienelen's relationship.

~oOo~

_'Thus we meet again, though all the hosts of Mordor lay between us," said Aragorn. 'Did I not say so at the Hornburg?'_

_'So you spoke,' said Eomer, 'but hope oft deceives, and I knew not then that you were a man foresighted. Yet twice blessed is help unlooked for'_

ROTK: The Battle of Pellenor Fields

~oOo~

Sixteen of rye, twenty of oat, and but three of wheat, for the lower fields had flooded again, and Master Heledhon had not heeded Herdir's advice and failed to plant his wheat upon the headlands. 'Twas of his own choice, but not just he shall suffer for it. Five children he has, as well as maiden sister, his brother's widowed wife, and his parents in his household. Should we not find other work for them, I am unsure what else the Angle might do for their betterment.

Thank the Valar we have a surplus of beans and pease. They may have little bread, but they will not want for aught to eat. I no longer need so much of the work of spinning and weaving to make blankets and the gathering of rushes to make mats now the flow of wanderers slows a little. But, the work of husbandry and assarting land will need more backs bent to it should we not suffer for want of fields to plant in the spring. Very well. I shall speak to Master Herdir and get his thoughts on the matter upon the morrow. There, 'tis done.

My lord sighs and tosses a fold of parchment to the stack that rises upon his left. There it joins other such missives; reports from his men of their movements about the lands of Eriador. For, after our even's meal and the clearing of it, we sit across one another with the thin light of the lamp between us.

I set aside my quill and take a sip of ale as I await the drying of the ink upon my journal. His map laid out afore him, my lord juggles several stones in his palm and frowns. There they ring about the Shire and the lands upon the South Road. He has more such letters to open piled about him. Rangers Sedwyn and Gelir returned earlier in the day and with them brought a full sack of them. We had been without news for several months and my lord restless for it.

I should build up the fire, I think, for the darkness of the hall at my back and the chill breeze that rises with the setting of the sun. My lord yawns and shakes his head sharply ere placing the stones upon his map and blinking.

His head lifts briefly when I rise from the bench, but he remains at his task without comment as I close the shutters, rake the coals and add more kindling to the fire. He does not stop until I have poured more ale into his cup, and once done with that, seated myself on the bench at his right arm. He turns his head to watch as I look over his work, amusement softening his face.

"What think you, lady?"

"I think you shall be at it for some time, my lord."

"Aye," he says, his voice wry, returning to looking o'er his map. "You have the right of it, there."

"Were not Haldren and Mathil at _Amon Sûl_?"

"Aye, lady, that they were." He frowns and circles a finger above the eastern border of Bree. "But now they are here, tracking the men who have traveled from beyond our southern border."

"Who is there now?"

He glares at the stones set upon_ Amon Sûl_ for a moment ere sighing and combing through the stack of opened letters.

"You do not recall it?" I ask and stare at him. 'Tis not like him to have forgot.

"No," he says, his irritation clearly spoken in the sharp slip of parchment as he looks over one only to cast it aside and rummage through the rest.

He has been favoring his broken arm throughout the exercise, though no longer wears it in a sling. Even now he cannot seem to find a comfortable position in which to rest, but lifts his arm from one spot to another with a slight grimace.

I suppose my sighing and rising from the bench do little to improve his mood, but when I return I have brought my shears from among the tools in a basket at the foot of my loom and have pulled a ragged bit of parchment from among my journals. This shall do, I think. 'Tis when I turn and reach behind us to pull open a drawer in his tall chest that my lord speaks.

"What are you about?" he asks, watching as I set several ends of old candles upon the table and take up my quill. He has given up on finding what he seeks and his men's letters lie in a tangle upon the table about us.

"My lord, you have a very good mind for these things and seldom need the aid, but, I think, mayhap you are too weary and the material too much for any to master in one sitting."

I slide the parchment to him and offer my quill. He peers first at the name I have written there and then my face, ere, shrugging, he takes the quill from my hand and reaches across me for the inkhorn.

As he writes, I rise and lean o'er him to gather up the letters. By the time my lord has written the name of each of his men and the ink is dry, I am well into sorting the reports into piles by date, one week at a time.

It must be clear what I intend, for my lord then takes to unfolding the reports he had yet opened. We have been at it for some time, working silently beside and reaching across the other when he snorts and offers his latest letter to me.

When I look at it, it is to find there is no date written therein, neither at the top margin nor is there signature at the bottom.

"Melethron," he says to my querying look. No doubt he recognizes the hand upon it.

"Well," I say, "we shall have to leave it until we can judge it by somewhat else we know."

"Aye," he says and pulls the parchment from my hands and places it off to the side.

I am done with sorting those letters already opened and take the shears to the parchment. With great care, I cut my lord's men's names into small slips. My lord frowns at me from where he is still unfolding the letters. He glances at me between skimming through their contents and placing them in their piles.

Yet 'tis not until I swipe at the stones and gather them into a cluster at the edge of the map that he speaks.

"Lady!" he cries in some alarm, his brows rising.

"Did you recall which men were where, my lord?"

It seems he struggles with some measure of his pride, for my lord does not respond for a moment, but looks from me to the clutter of stones.

"No," he admits at last with somewhat of a sour look. He tosses the final letter upon a pile with its mates.

He watches as I snip at the parchment with some interest, his arm propped upon the table and fingers playing idly upon the short hairs below his lip. He lets loose a soft grunt when I warm the end of a candle butt in the flame of the lamp. I think then he has caught on to the idea, for he leans forward in his chair and takes up a bit of wax to join me. It takes some effort, for the timing and amount must be just right, else the slips of parchment shall not attach securely to the stones.

"Shall I tell you where," I ask when done, and reach for the first pile of letters, "or do you wish –"

My lord shakes his head and takes them from under my hand. "Here," he says, picking out two of the stones and sliding them afore me.

"Haldren and Mathil in _Amon Sûl_," he says, and I push them into place over the fords to the south.

The map lies spread afore my lord's chair and so, without knowing it, I have come in close and placed my hand upon the back of his shoulder and neck the better to reach across him. He seems much occupied by the contents of the letter, reading it swiftly to himself ere moving on to the next and does not seem to mind. So we proceed.

Once done, my lord leans in close over the table, clutching his jaw in his hand and peering closely o'er the map as were he committing it to memory. His eyes flick from stone to stone, taking them in with his keen gaze. He nods.

"I am ready," he says and sits up straighter. We take up the next pile of letters and do much the same with them.

We have gotten through the fourth pile of letters when he halts for a long moment, scratching at his beard and considering the map.

"There is somewhat amiss," he says at last, but, I am afraid, in my growing need for sleep, my thoughts are not as sharp and I have lost the thread of his men and their movements. I know not how he has kept track of them at this point.

"Would Melethron's undated letter be of help?" I ask and his head jerks up from where he has rested it upon his fist.

He shrugs after reading it and passes it on to me.

No, the contents make little sense given what I see on the table. So much for that. He has returned to considering his map as I read, but his face turns of sudden to me. It seems I had yawned and attempted to hide it behind the letter.

"Ah," he says, sitting straight to stretch his neck and shoulders. "Forgive me, lady, I have kept you overlong from your sleep."

"Go to bed," he urges low when he has settled and I yet make no move to go. "Your own work is done. You should not also be burdened with mine."

"Are you certain?" I ask and he smiles softly upon me in response.

When I slip my hand from behind his neck he catches it in his. "_My thanks to thee_," he says and presses a soft kiss to my knuckles ere he releases me.

There, for the first I have known him, he suffers me to run my fingertips upon his brow and cheek and the hair that lays upon them without losing the fondness that softens his look upon me.

"Do you wish for aught ere I go?" I ask, my hand lighting upon his shoulder. His own weariness is plain to see in the slump of his shoulders and softness of skin about his eyes.

He shakes his head. "I think I have it now," he says and then continues when I do not rise and leave him there. "Be at ease, lady. I shall do just enough so it is no longer a risk to my sleep."

Indeed, it would not be the first somewhat occurred to him in the middle of the night and he rose from our bed, took up the breeches he had laid across the low chest, and crept down the risers to the hall in the dark. There he would light a lamp and pour over his work. He took great care to leave me undisturbed and I knew these times only for the evidence of it upon the table when I awoke the next morn. Though I doubt not his kinsman asleep on the settle in the hall would grumble and yank his pillow from beneath his head so he might lay it o'er his face and return to sleep. So he would do now, were he here and not securing the Last Bridge along the East Road.

My lord's kiss is gentle; a mere brush of lips and then gone.

"To bed," he says as I blink at him. "I shall join you in a little."

And so I left him. There he sat at his table, lit as he was in the small circle of light of the lamp and the fire of the hearth burning low. The last I saw ere I set my feet upon the stairs, he had taken up the pile of letters and, leaning against the back of his chair, puzzled more intently over their contents and drank from his cup of ale.

Despite his promise, 'twas much later, when the moon rose o'er the meadow and shown her light silver through the trees and lit in thin stripes upon the solar floor, that he came to bed. He took care to make little noise and slipped beneath the covers without shaking the bed. But it was his body lying heavily upon the mattress that woke me.

I think he must have caught my thoughts easily for my look, for he shook his head when I turned to him. He had not discovered what had given him unease. 'Twas sure to make for a restless night's sleep for him.

His look grew puzzled when I then turned to my back and lifted the covers, only to raise his brows of a sudden in surprise when I slipped my arm beneath his neck where he had lifted his head to look upon me.

"You are sure I am not too great a weight for your own sleep?" asked he.

"Nay, my lord." For the weight of his body was not a burden. Indeed, the feel of his body lying upon mine and pressing me to the mattress was most oft a comfort and I rested the better for it.

I am unsure what thoughts troubled him at that moment, but, soon, he had laid his head upon my shoulder and, pressed to my side, wrapped his arm about waist and back, his leg twined between mine. There he lay still, his eyes yet open, as I brushed the hair from his brow. But it was when my fingers scratched lightly upon his scalp that his eyes fell shut beneath their own weight, and he grew lax and his breathing slowed. Then, warm and secured beneath his weight, I, too, slept.

~oOo~


	76. Thank you

2/29/20

Well, gentle readers, it has come to an end. And I confess I'm a little overcome by the enormity of it. I believe my first files when I started researching and writing are dated almost exactly 15 years ago. I then abandoned the work in 2007 when I ran into a plot hole that sapped the joy of it from me, only to pick it back up again in September 2018 and start anew. And now, it is done.

Thank you, very much, for reading. I hope it gave you pleasure.

I owe a great debt of gratitude to many people, without whom this story would not have been written.

The denizens of The Inn of the Burping Troll, for their tireless cheerleading, humor, and criticism. They dragged me into roleplay, and then a Mysterious Stranger appeared out of nowhere and kicked us in the ass. And then things got real.

Just_Ann and Edoraslass for the joy of their company during the first draft, their inspiration from their writing, and very long conversations about this story on LJ. (Go read their stories for their fantastic OFCs and Theodred/Boromir slash.)

HASA and Gandalf's Apprentice, who has been there and generous since the beginning.

Idril's_Scribe for her insightful comments and frankness when beta-ing.

And all the commenters and kudo-ers, I cannot thank you enough for your enthusiasm, the life blood of fanfic authors. :)

It's been a trip, y'all. Whatever shall I do with myself next?

~oOo~


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